Gone Another Way
by meetmeinstlouie
Summary: This AU fic is inspired by the question Mrs. Hughes asks in Season 1. What if our dear Butler and Housekeeper had "gone another way"? Other DA characters will appear. This will mostly take place in late 19th century middle America. UPDATE: New chapter. Pen spills her secret.
1. A Question

**A/N: This is my first fic. There are so many good stories out there; I hope I'm not lowering the standard. If you have time, reviews would be most appreciated! Thank you for reading!**

 _St. Louis, 1904_

The bell tinkled softly as the door shut. He stood frozen for a moment before feeling his shoulders relax. They were gone, these people from another country, another continent. Another world.

At one time, it was his world, too.

 _On your feet, Charlie. I know you're tired, but they're not home yet. We've got to stay up and wait._ Helping the scullery maid scrub the pots-whatever became of her? The piles and piles of boots to clean during a shooting party. Running up the stairs to the door to the hall, peeking through to see the grand ladies and gentlemen. _You're a good lad. A hard worker. Someday you may be a footman, or someday the Butler. Head of the downstairs staff, eh? Would you like that?_

At one time, it was the only home he knew. _They_ were the only family he had.

But that was a long time ago.

He shuffled over to the ledger and opened the pages. It was best he recorded the details now, while they were fresh in his mind. He was meticulously scratching his Lordship's order and the cost when he realized that she hadn't moved.

She stood, as frozen as he had been, staring out the window. The sun coming in illumined the dust particles around her hair, the auburn strands still distinct.

"Feels like something out of a fairy tale, doesn't it?"

His baritone startled her out of her reverie. She laughed, shaking her head.

"You're not far from the truth there." She wondered why they affected her so. Was it the accent? She bit her lip, thinking. Remembering. The back stairs were steep, more so when she was barely awake to climb them. Dusting the drawing room, vanishing noiselessly when one of Them decided to come in. _Yes, milady. I'll see to it, sir_. The quiet satisfaction in a job well done, even if no one knew it but her.

But she _wasn't_ the only one who knew. _Elsie, you're the best I've ever had here. You'd do well at a larger house, I think. Have you ever considered being head housemaid? Or a housekeeper?_

Thoughts long since forgotten flooded her mind. Not doubts, really, just what _if_...

The question tumbled out.

"Do you...ever wish you'd...gone another way?"


	2. Two Arrivals

**I meant to say that the first chapter is a prologue. Sorry for the information dump here.**

 _Brooklyn, New York. Summer 1882_

"Are you sure this is the place?"

Grigg's voice shouted behind him. The rain was coming down so hard it felt like needles against his skin. He wiped his face and squinted at the sign over the door. Before he could knock again, it flew open.

"Get in, get in!" A dark-haired man with an exquisite handlebar mustache gestured inside. Charles didn't hesitate, but Grigg still trod on his heels as they both practically fell through the door.

"Welcome to The Bard's Boardinghouse. I'm Eugene DeArdo, manager of Washington's Theater." He offered his hand and shook their hands in turn.

"I'm Charlie Grigg." His shorter partner took his hat off, which was a mistake. Water splashed from the brim onto the floor and all over Charles's sodden shoes. He sighed. Not that it mattered, as wet as he was. He would have given anything for a hot bath.

"And I am-"

"Charlie Carson. Of course, you both looked familiar. I know it's been several months since we met in London, but you haven't changed that much. Just leave your trunks at the stairs for now. Don't worry about the water on the floor, I'll get Mrs. Hanley to mop it up. There's a fire in here, let's get you dried off-"

Eugene continued to talk as they moved into what looked like a side parlor. Charles winced a little at the man's accent. These Americans and their strange ways of speech. So sharp, so direct, so...foreign. As he rubbed his hands in front of the fire, relishing its warmth, he suddenly felt an odd, lonely feeling. _I am the foreigner here. Not them_. He thought again of the letter in his coat. If he wanted to go back, he would have a place to stay. A home. If he wanted to go back, that is.

He turned back to the other two. Grigg was recounting their voyage from Southampton.

"Not so bad, the weather was fine. Crowded as all hell, as you can imagine." Grigg snorted. "On deck wasn't bad at all, most people stayed below, too sick to get out of bed."

 _Including you_ , thought Charles. He smiled to himself.

"And Ellis Island? Not too difficult to get through, I assume? Since you're both standing here, it must have been fairly easy for you." Eugene looked at Charles.

Easy?

 _He had never been one to feel claustrophobic, not even in the cramped steerage on board. That all changed the moment they arrived on Ellis Island. The massive hall they had entered upon leaving the ship dwarfed even the hall at Downton Abbey. He and Grigg had been pushed into the space by a wall of people. He'd grabbed hold of his partner's coat at one point when he realized the smaller man was literally being carried along by the crowd, lifted off of his feet. And the noise, the roar of a thousand people, a hundred different languages. It made him feel adrift, like a leaf on a stream. Nothing steady to hold on to._

 _Why did he let Grigg talk him into coming to America?_

He started, realizing the other two were waiting for his answer. He stuttered a reply.

"Oh, it was tolerable. We got through all right." He took a deep breath, forcing a smile. "Mr. DeArdo, if it's not too much trouble, could you direct us to our room?"

"Right this way. I'm sorry to keep you standing in wet clothes." They walked back into the hallway. Eugene gestured in the opposite direction. "The dining room is in there. Dinner will be served in about half an hour. You must be hungry." He started up the stairs.

"Yes, thank you." Grigg picked up his trunk and followed him. Charles bent to pick up his own. He tried to ignore the water and muddy prints all over the floor. At that moment, the front door opened and several people came in. One man, a pale, thin fellow with blond hair, was laughing with two young women, one blond, another with light brown hair. Another woman followed behind the three, her face hidden beneath her hat as she shook her umbrella. The man behind her jumped aside, away from the water droplets spraying everywhere.

"Damnation! I come inside to get out of the rain, and you start flinging it everywhere!"

"Calm down, Walter." The blond man removed his hat as the other ladies brushed themselves off. "She didn't mean to get it all over you, did you, sweetheart?"

"I just bought this suit yesterday!"

"Walter, that's enough." Eugene came back down the stairs. He looked in pretended seriousness at the spots on the man's coat before shrugging. "It's just water. Ladies, are you staying for dinner? I told Mrs. Hanley you'd be here, so there's plenty for all." He rubbed his hands together.

"Rain or shine, we'd not miss her goulash!" One woman, the blond, smiled. Charles was suddenly aware of several sets of eyes.

"Oh, excuse me." Eugene stepped back. "Everyone, meet the newest members of our variety show.* The Cheerful Charlies. They've come all the way from London, England. That's Charlie Grigg, on the stairs-" Grigg waved, amused. "-and this is Charlie Carson here."

Charles wasn't sure what to do, so he bowed slightly. One of the women giggled.

"So formal. Are all Englishmen like that?"

"Well, we should let you get settled." The blond man moved toward the dining room. "There'll be plenty of time for introductions before dinner."

"Yes, your room is the second door at the top of the stairs." Eugene lifted Charles's forgotten trunk.

"I hope you don't think all Americans are as rude as Walter." The woman with the umbrella said quietly as Charles removed his cloak to hang it on the hook by the door, water dripping steadily.

"Of course not. Just as not all Englishmen are as formal as I." He turned to give her a small smile.

She had removed her hat. Dark brown hair and light eyes-blue, or were they more green? He couldn't tell. Tall, taller than most women he knew. The top of her head was level with his nose.

She was, without doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

A smile quirked at the corner of her mouth, showing a dimple, and she blushed. It made her even more beautiful. If that were possible.

"I'm Alice. Alice Neal." She offered her hand. He cleared his throat.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Neal." He shook her hand, pulling away quicker than was normal. It would not do to think about how her hand felt in his, no, it wouldn't do at all.

She laughed, a breathy sound that made his heart flutter.

"Ever the formal one, aren't you, _Mr_. Carson?"

"Sometimes." He managed to stammer.

"I'll see you at dinner. Perhaps you'll enjoy it more when you aren't so wet?" She gave him a last smile and went into the dining room. He looked down and for the first time noticed the pool of water he was standing in. He groaned in embarrassment at the wet stains all over his clothes as he quickly climbed the stairs.

Grigg came out of the room as Eugene passed him going down.

"It's not bad. Small. That bed might be a bit small for you, though." He went over to the small mirror in their room and began slicking his hair back. Charles sank down on the opposite bed.

"You all right?"

"Mmm." He murmured. Ten minutes ago he was questioning if he should have come at all. Whether it was right to take the leap without answering Mr. Palmer's last letter. _If you ever wish to return to Downton, there will be a place for you._ He thought of the young woman downstairs.

Perhaps America wasn't so bad after all.

 _Near St. Louis, Missouri, that same day_

The landscape flashed by in a cacophany of colors - the fields in bright gold and dark green, the blue sky above. She stood at the rail, at the end of the chugging train, grateful for the breeze. Strands of hair clung to her neck while beads of sweat ran down her back. She never imagined it could be this hot. Da had described it in his letters, but feeling it was an entirely different matter.

She would have given almost anything for a cold bath.

How long had they been on this train? The entire journey felt like it had lasted an age.

 _The fog that last morning at the farm, the house disappearing into it like it had never existed. The last glimpse of Argyll. Mam's weeping on the train in Glasgow. Holding onto Becky's* hand in the crowds in Liverpool, terrified of letting go, of losing the curious youngster in the mob and never seeing her again. Wondering what it would feel like to dip her feet in the ocean. Crammed into steerage, Becky sleeping between her and Mam. The stares and pointing fingers at Ellis Island. Momentary terror that Becky would fail the physical exam, that she would not be allowed to enter America. Mam's boldness._ She shook her head. Would Da believe it? _Slipping the agent money...she could have been arrested!_

 _Why didn't she write Da back and tell him Mrs. Donnelly had offered her the position of head housemaid? It wasn't a big house, but the housekeeper seemed sure that in several years Elsie could get a better position elsewhere. More money. A better life for all of them. Better than traipsing halfway around the world..._

Through the open doorway, she could see the two of them. Becky slept against her mother's chest. Rhona's arms were clasped around her youngest child as though she expected her to fly out of the window.

Reluctantly, she left the blessed breeze. The air inside was warm and stifling, only stirred by the open door.

"Mother?"

"I know." Mam huffed, raising her eyebrows. "Don't bother, lass. We're nearly there. Mr. Benson says East St. Louis is the next stop." She gestured to a man sitting across from them, absorbed in his newspaper.

"You should still let me hold her for a while." Elsie tried again. The dark shadows under her mother's eyes were so deep they looked like carvings on stone.

A smile ghosted across Mam's face. "Not a chance. Your Da won't want to let go of her, so I'd best hold her while I can."

 _True_. Becky was barely more than an infant when the last harvest failed and Da sailed away. At least when she was working near Glasgow she had been able to go home on several occasions. Her salary, and the money Da sent back, had been enough-barely-to keep Mam and Becky on the farm.

The train slowed, and Elsie was knocked off balance. She grabbed at the seat opposite Mam.

"You'd best sit down. After the next stop, it's not more than four miles to the city." Mr. Benson folded his newspaper. "And you'll want a good view when we cross the Eads Bridge*. Only the birds have a better view of the Mississippi from there."

Houses appeared as the train slowed. A man driving a wagon waved at the train from the dirt road running alongside the track. Mam gasped.

"Is he - dark- _skinned_?"

"Yes." Elsie waved back, surprised when he smiled at her. She always thought of herself as a practical person, not caring about appearance. Becky had a lot to do with that. But she wasn't used to seeing people so different from her. _This isn't Argyll, Elsie. Not Scotland._

 _I guess they call it the New World for a reason_.

They were stopped for less than fifteen minutes in East St. Louis. By the time they had begun moving again, Mr. Benson had very kindly spoken to the porter about their trunks. There would be no need to worry at the station. Becky woke up and climbed into the seat next to Mam, her face glued to the window.

"May I sit here, Miss Hughes? Until we arrive? You'll have a better view from this side of the train." He seemed apologetic.

"Of course, sir." She moved over, across from Becky. Her little sister gave her a toothy grin. She smiled widely back, her heart melting. From the moment that bairn was born, she loved her.

"Have you traveled across the Eads Bridge, Mr. Benson?" Mam asked. "After it was built, we read about it in the newspaper, even in Argyll."

"Only once before. The steel arch spans-" The man next to Elsie seemed to be in awe as the train lumbered onto the bridge. Elsie tried to listen, but she couldn't understand half of what he was talking about. Then she looked down.

"Oh my! That's a long way down to the river from here."

"Wi-ver, wi-ver." Becky sang, pointing at the swirling water. Mam laughed and leaner closer to the window.

"That's right, wee one. It's the river."

The brown water passed by, replaced by building after building. As the train slowed one last time, Elsie began to feel nervous again. Would Da be there? What was this place _really_ like?

She and Mam held tight to Becky's hands as they left the train. It felt strange to be standing once again on solid ground. Mr. Benson tipped his hat to them as they said goodbye. Elsie sighed in relief as the porter removed their trunks. The three travelers hovered next to them, looking everywhere in the crowd.

"Rhona!" A booming voice called. Mam turned so fast Elsie had to steady her.

"Patrick?" Mam's voice quavered. "Patrick McNally, is that you?" A big, broad man with bushy sideburns strode through the crowd. Mam let go of Becky's hand. The man embraced her, nearly lifting her off of her feet.

"I haven't seen you since the day Ailsa and I got married!" He patted her gently on the shoulder as she wiped at her eyes with her handkerchief. His mouth fell open when he saw Elsie.

"Is this little Elspeth? You were just a wee thing!"

She barely remembered Ailsa-her mother's cousin. But she did have a memory of the big man twirling her around when she wanted to dance.

"It's good to see you again, Patrick." She scooped up Becky in her arms. "This is Rebecca. We call her Becky." She bit her lip, holding her breath. Surely Da had told him.

A gentle smile spread across his face. He softly touched Becky's cheek. "She's as pretty as her Mam and sister."

Elsie and her mother let out their breath together. Mam touched her cousin's arm. "But where is Ewan? Is he here?"

"He's waiting beside the wagon. I'll get your trunks, go on and don't keep him waiting any longer!"

Elsie put Becky down and hurried her along the platform. Her mother moved with a speed her daughter hadn't seen in years. By the time she had gotten Becky down the stairs, Mam was beside the wagon.

Tears blurred her vision and she caught her breath. Mam was sobbing into Da's chest. He was thinner than she remembered, and he never had that many freckles before! But then he looked over his wife's shoulder and their blue eyes met.

"Elsie! My Elsie, you're here! And Becky too." He reached out with his other arm and a moment later the four of them were together. Elsie's head rested against her father's shoulder. Later there would be time to talk, and plan. But right now she wasn't sorry she'd come.

*1882 was very early in vaudeville history. The first "clean" vaudeville show (no bawdy content) began in New York City in 1881 (per Wikipedia, which may or may not be accurate). I doubt the term vaudeville was in general use at this time.

*I couldn't find anywhere in canon evidence of Becky's age. For this story, I made her birthdate 1878 (Elsie is said to have been born in 1862, so twenty years old in 1882.) Becky's precise condition is unknown in canon, so again for this AU her symptoms are similar to Down's Syndrome. Regarding Ellis Island, all immigrants had to pass a physical exam to be admitted to the United States. If an adult failed, depending on the condition, they were detained until they were well; barring that, they could be sent back to Europe. If a child failed the physical examination and was unable to pass it later, they would be sent back-but not alone. A member of their family would be sent back with them. Naturally, many families were willing to do extraordinary things to keep themselves intact.

*The Eads Bridge was the longest arch bridge in the world when it was completed in 1874. It is still used by cars, trains and the light rail system. My dad is a virtual geek about this bridge.


	3. Unsteady

**The next couple chapters will switch between Charles and Elsie. I'm going to try and be more regular with this, but Mr. Meetme and I are the middle of looking for a new place to call home. Please review if you have time. Thanks!**

 _Brooklyn, New York. August 1882._

"Papa Bear, look! Someone's been sitting in my chair!" Nellie Cohan bent over and picked up Golden-Hair's* straw hat. She tried setting it on her head, but the ears on Baby Bear's costume were too big. The hat fell off. The children in the audience roared.

Charles peered through Papa Bear's mouth. Blinking back the sweat that threatened his eyesight, he picked up the hat and flung it off-stage.

"Who's been eating our porridge?" He boomed. The theater went quiet. He turned to his right, to the flickering faces behind the gaslights. "Who's been sitting in Baby Bear's chair? Who dared to enter our HOUSE?"

Jere placed a paw on his shoulder. He barely felt it through the heavy material.

"Now, Papa, don't fret." Charles bit back a laugh at the sound of Jere's Mama Bear falsetto. "Let's go and see if we can find anything in the bedroom."

The three bears - Charles first, then Jere, with Nellie pretendings to hide behind- lumbered through the thin door.

"Papa, someone's been sleeping in your bed!" Nellie shrieked, pointing at the ruffled blankets.

"And mine!" Jere shouted, holding his paws in the air.

"And SOMEONE..." Charles boomed, before his voice quieted almost to a whisper. "...is sleeping in Baby Bear's bed."

Josie, wearing the golden pig-tailed wig, pretended to sleep until Nellie poked her. She sprang out of the bed, wide-eyed in terror. It never failed to impress Charles that a six-year-old was so seasoned on stage. She and Nellie danced around the bed as the audience laughed. The four lined up to bow before the curtain fell in front of them.

"Need a hand, Charlie?" His stomach flipped as he pulled off the bear's head. Alice took it from him with a dimpled grin. "You looked like you fell into the Hudson."

"He's not the only one." Jere threw his head back, breathing deeply. "Nellie, let's go to the dressing room and get changed. Josie!"

He scooped up his daughter as they all hurried into the wings. Winking at the little girl as they went past, Charles hovered on stage right. Alice stayed on stage as the music changed. As much as he wanted to get out of costume, he couldn't resist staying to hear her sing.

He was mesmerized as her voice floated into every corner of the building. At one point, she turned slightly, her face visible. She smiled as she sang and Charles dared to think - _is she thinking of me?_

"She's really something, isn't she, mate?"

He jumped so suddenly at Grigg's voice that he nearly tripped. As he regained his balance, he noticed two flymen behind them, doubled over in silent laughter.

"What the devil are you doing here?" He snarled in a harsh whisper. "Weren't you going out with Mr. and Miss Carter, and Miss Edwards?"

"Steady on." Grigg raised his eyebrows. "I was, but it seems they wanted to wait for _you_. Seems they enjoy your company."

"Oh." Charles bent to pick up Papa Bear's head where Alice had placed it. He quickly moved backstage. In the dressing room, Grigg helped him out of the rest of the bear costume. After making sure it was in one piece, he pulled on a clean shirt and combed his hair. Grigg chewed on a toothpick.

"You're a better man than I am."

Charles looked in the dirty mirror back at his partner. "What makes you say that?" He pressed at the wild black hair on the back of his head.

Grigg sniffed. "Well, if Eugene had asked me to get in a bear costume and share the stage with a little girl, I'd have told him to bugger off."

"I'm not sure he'd understand you." Fumbling with his tie, Charles resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Grigg's vulgarity. "And even if he caught your intent, it isn't as if you -or more accurately, _I_ \- have any choice."

"You could've told him you wouldn't do it."

"And then we'd get sacked."

"How do you know?" Grigg snorted. "Eugene asked you because he knew you'd do it. He didn't ask me or Jamie or Walter because he knew we'd say no. You're a sap, Charlie."

Charles felt himself getting warm. "I am no fool. Unlike you, I'm thinking of our place here." He turned, pulling on his coat. "Do you remember where we were before coming to New York? Practically living on the streets! Mr. DeArdo gave us a very generous offer and I for one do not intend to forget it!"

"I haven't forgotten it, either." Grigg handed him his hat as they exited the room. "I didn't mean to drag Eugene into it. I'm sure he's just looking at it with an eye at business. I respect that, I do."

"Then what is your point?" Charles had a feeling that he knew what it was, but he wasn't going to help Grigg get there. He opened the door to the outside, and felt the relief of a breeze.

"My point is that I didn't go on the halls for me, or anyone I worked with, to have to come behind a couple of bloomin' kiddies-"

"That's enough." _This_ _ **again**_. Charles saw the others waiting at the front of the theater. "The Cohans are not leaving, and if you haven't noticed, Jere and Nellie are both very talented."*

"Talent don't have anything to do with it." Grigg walked quickly forward to greet the ladies. Jamie offered his hand. Charles shook it, still deep in thought.

"What's troubling you, Charlie?" The blond man grinned. "Argument with Grigg?"

Charles forced himself to smile. "Not at all, Mr. Carter. Just a lot on my mind."

"Would a certain lady be on your mind, dare I ask?" Jamie chattered as they strolled down the street. "If you're wondering why Miss Neal is not joining us this fine evening, well, I can assure you that you shouldn't worry about her having supper with Eugene tonight-"

"Is that so? And how would you know that?" His voice came out louder than he intended. Grigg, Josephine and Cecilia stopped walking in front of them and turned around.

"Because she told me." Josephine said. She grabbed her brother's arm impatiently. "Jamie, I _told_ you it was private-"

Jamie pulled his arm free. "Nothing's private backstage! And everyone knows about them anyway."

"Everyone except Charlie." Grigg and Cecilia exchanged a look that clearly meant _and it should have stayed that way_.

"Why shouldn't I know if everyone else does?" Charles yanked at his collar, feeling like he was choking.

Jamie opened the door to the bar. Smoke and loud laughter drifted out. "Let's go in. Ladies first." He gestured at Charles, almost in apology. Grigg clapped a hand on his shoulder and steered him towards the corner of the room, calling over his shoulder. "Jamie, get us two whiskeys."

"It's not what it looks like." Josephine patted Charles's hand as they sat down at a table. "Don't look at me that way! I wouldn't lie to you." She sighed, resting her fingers against her temple. "Alice agreed to have supper with Eugene so that she could speak for all of us. Let the manager know what we thought."

His eyebrows furrowed. "And what is it that we all _think_ , Miss Carter?" Jamie pushed a drink in front of him. He ignored it.

"Oh, Lord Almighty." Grigg took a long sip of whiskey. "I tried to talk to him about them earlier."

Charles sighed. "Is this about the Cohans? We've had more people come to the shows in the last four weeks alone!" The pressure in his chest began to ebb. Maybe Alice did just want to talk about business. He nearly laughed in relief. _As if she'd prefer the company of that short Italian* over you. It's you that she fancies. You're the one she gave her glove to as a token. The others don't know about that..._

"It isn't about the money. We think it'd be better for all of us if the Cohans found another theater. Or went on the road. They've done that before. Little Georgie was born in Rhode Island." Cecilia spoke as the others nodded. Jamie swallowed his drink then stood up.

"Alice has a way of speaking that is more agreeable than any of us have. That's why she's talking to Eugene. Get him to change his mind." He started to move towards the piano, but his mouth fell open. "Or he could come here and we could all tell him together."

Everyone turned on cue, as if they were on stage. Through the haze of smoke, Charles saw Alice and Eugene make their way towards the group. Her lips were pressed in a line. Her eyes found his, and she shook her head. Relief gushed through him - relief that she still sought him out, relief that Eugene hadn't decided to get rid of the family. Grigg knew, and he felt the others suspected, that Charles liked Jere and Nellie.

"Good. I'm glad you're all here. I already spoke with Walter- Mr. Borth, that is." Eugene held his hat in his hands, thumbs pinching the brim. "Alice has told me of your concerns. I think you all know that I'm not going to change my mind about the Cohans. They're staying in the show."

There was a tense beat. Eugene took a breath and continued. "That's not to say there won't be other changes. Mr. Borth has informed me that he has found another theater in which to perform, in Manhattan."

Alice nodded without comment. Clearly this was not a surprise to her. The other ladies gasped. Grigg mumbled next to Charles, "I knew it. Knew he'd find a way out."

"But there's something else. Something that affects the rest of you. I didn't tell Miss Neal earlier-" He turned to her as her face registered curiosity. "-because I wanted to tell you all at the same time, or close to it. I've already talked to Jere and Nellie." He tugged at his mustache.

"I've decided we need a change of venue. Away from Brooklyn. I have a friend in St. Louis who agreed to sell me his theater. We'll go there for the autumn and stay at least until the new year."

Several voices spoke at once.

"What!?"

"Why not stay in New York?"

"For the rest of the year? No!"

Eugene put his hat on the table and held up his hands, his expression grim. "That's my decision. I'm not going back on it. We're closing the show here next week, then packing up. If anyone disagrees, then of course, you can follow Walter."

He looked at them all one at a time, as if to size them up. "Right. First show tomorrow at nine o'clock. I expect you all to be there." He put on his hat and walked out. No one moved. Swallowing, Charles said the first thing that came to his mind.

"Where is St. Louis?"

 _Two weeks later_

The daylight was almost gone. Charles stood outside the railcar, his hands behind him. He liked to stand here as the train picked up speed; it was good for his balance.

As the eastern sky darkened, Charles sighed. Every mile they traveled was one mile further from Brooklyn. Where he thought he'd found steady ground. _Was it really steady, Charles?_

He rubbed his face, feeling the stubble on his chin. It wasn't the thought of another place. Really, one theater was the same as another. It didn't matter if it was in London, Brooklyn, or St. Louis. No, what bothered him was it felt the same as the day he and Grigg arrived in New York. Pushed along by a crowd, barely able to find his footing. As if the earth stood still, and he was doomed to continue running. Unless he found a steady place.

 _You could always go back to Downton_. He shook his head. Thinking of Downton brought both pleasure and pain. If he could only hold onto the good memories, while forgetting the bad ones. Steady. That was Downton. Everything had its place. The seasons continued one after another, looking after the family...his grandfather leading the horses out before a hunt. Mother humming as she mended a shawl.

What was that song? She used to sing it before tucking him into bed. He shut his eyes for a moment, the rhythm of the train on the tracks melting away.

 _"O ye'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road,_

 _And I'll be in Scotland afore ye,_

 _But me and my true love will never meet again,_

 _On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomond."*_

His voice trailed away, a deep baritone. If she were still alive, she wouldn't recognize it, or him. He sniffed, grateful for the wind and the dark. Charles felt for his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. No use in thinking about her now. Or Downton. Both were out of his reach.

The door opened from the car, and Alice stepped out. She held firmly to the rail. Light from inside had followed her as she came outside, but they stood again in the semi-dark, as the earth rolled away beneath them.

"Will you miss Brooklyn? I guess you never really had a chance to get to know the place." She patted her hat to make sure it was pinned properly.

"No, I can't say I'll miss it." He shook his head. "I can't say that I miss London, either." He smiled at Alice. "Do I shock you, Miss Neal?"

She laughed softly, covering her mouth. "You don't shock me anymore, Charlie. I'd like to see London someday, if only to decide if I will miss it or not."

"Dr. Johnson would never approve of me."* Alice looked confused.

"Who's Dr. Johnson? A friend of yours?"

It was Charles's turn to laugh. "Hardly. Samuel Johnson was a great English writer, poet and scholar. He's been dead since before 1800, at least. He's famous for something he told a friend of his. 'When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, for there is in London all that life can afford.' "

She gazed at the landscape behind them. "It sounds wonderful to me. All those people! I'd never be bored. But cities aren't for everyone."

"No." He said it so quietly that he wasn't sure she could hear him over the train.

"What do you miss, Charlie? You don't miss Brooklyn, or London. There must be something. Or perhaps someone?" She teased.

He looked down, the tracks blurring his eyesight.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Of course not. You never could." He realized what he had said after the words had left his mouth. Not daring to look at her, he rushed on.

"I suppose if I miss any place, it's Downton."

"Downton?" She shifted from one foot to another, tapping a toe against the rail.

"It's a village in Yorkshire. Northern England." He explained before she could ask. "I was born there, and lived there my whole life until I was twenty. Then I left."

"How long ago was that?"

"Five years ago." He breathed out. _Has it been that long?_

"So you're twenty-five?"* The tone of her voice caught his ear. She frowned.

"Do I not look it?" For an instant, he felt panic. Did she see a grey hair somewhere? If he was going grey at his age, he'd be playing the grandfather in every show.

Her face softened. "You're a fine man. No one would think you're any older than Jamie, and he's twenty-four. But he and Charlie Grigg already have wrinkles around their eyes. You don't." She smiled. "Except when you smile."

He forced himself to breathe. _When she looked at him like that..._

"It's kind of you to say so, Miss Neal."

"I mean it." She turned around, so that her back was against the rail. "Would you say you've changed, then? Since you left your village."

"Without a doubt." _In some ways, I wish I had not changed._ "Do you, Miss Neal? Since you were a young child, certainly you've changed." He realized he knew almost nothing of where she came from. She had never spoken of it.

Alice stared back into the railcar. The shadows of people moving reflected on her face, going from the light, into dark, then light again. He wondered if she'd heard him.

"I grew up in a tiny village, too. It's a little spot in western Maryland." She laughed, but it was bitter. She clenched her teeth. Her expression kept him from asking where Maryland was.

"It's fitting, really. The village is called Accident."* She threw her head back and laughed again, a deep, throaty sound. Once again there was no mirth. "I grew up there, and it was an accident that I lived there. From the earliest time I could remember, I _knew_ I wanted to get out. I wasn't meant to stay there." She clasped her hands in front of her.

"So to answer your question, Mr. Carson, no. I don't think I've changed. I've always known where I wanted to be, and it wasn't there. I'm never going back. I'm never going to be like-" She swallowed, as if stopping herself from saying too much. "I'm never going back. _Never_."

For some reason, he felt uneasy. Perhaps she did not have a loving family. His childhood was poor, but he never doubted his mother's love.

"You've learned from the past, though." He said gently. He hoped he could find the right words, for once relying on his instinct. "From mistakes others have made. You don't want to make the same mistakes. You want something better, there's nothing wrong with that."

She smiled at him and ran a hand along the rail. "I never thought of it that way. I guess I have changed."

"What would be the point in living if we didn't let life change us?"

Laughing, she nodded. He was relieved to hear her natural voice again.

"You're quite the philosopher, Charlie Carson." She put her hand on the door to go back inside. "I've got a couple of sandwiches left over. Would you like one? I see how much you eat."

"Thank you, I would like that." He followed her, shutting the door behind him. Above the rumbling train, the stars were glittering in the late summer sky.

*Golden-Hair. The name of the girl in the children's story was not popularly known as Goldilocks in the 1880s. She became known as Goldilocks in the early 20th century.

*The Four Cohans. Jeremiah "Jere" Cohan, his wife Helen "Nellie", their daughter Josephine "Josie" (born in 1876) and their son, George Michael Cohan (born 1878). They were a famous American vaudeville family in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. George M. Cohan grew up to be a famous actor, playwright, composer and producer on the stage. Most of what I know about them comes from the film _Yankee Doodle Dandy_ (1942), which starred James Cagney as George.

*I don't think Charles would ever refer to someone in public by an ethnic name. But I do think he at least categorizes people in his own mind, like thinking of his boss as "that short Italian".

*The chorus of "Loch Lomond", a traditional Scottish song. The version I remember is by The King's Singers.

*Samuel Johnson was also known as Dr. Johnson. From what I've read about him (a devout Anglican and Tory), he seems exactly Charles Carson's type. The quote about London is famous.

*I just made up Carson's age. I put it that he was born in 1857, so as of late summer 1882, twenty-five years old. Wild black hair and strong arms. Uh huh.

*Accident, Maryland is a real place. It's a pretty, tiny village.


	4. Homer And A Trip Up The Nile

**Time for another Downton person to show up. I own none of it, more's the pity.**

 _St. Louis, Missouri, August 1882_

Schwartzmann's store had stood on Oakland Avenue for fifteen years. For much of that time, the owners, Carl and Helen, had gotten a reputation of being fine, upstanding Christian citizens. They were popular with their neighbors. Other than the colors and patterns of the suits and dresses, not much changed in the store. So it was a shock to long-time residents in the late summer of 1882 to see hoards of young men suddenly going in and out. Gossips whispered that it must be the new assistants.

"My cousins are always asking me about all the young men coming here!" Elsie laughed as she checked the sleeve she'd finished. "Bridget is convinced I have a sweetheart." She shook her head as Helen took the shirt and carefully placed it with the other new items. "She should know better - she met Pen last Sunday."

She glanced into the store. Mr. Schwartzmann was busy with an older gentleman, a regular customer, fitting him with a new necktie. Pen stood behind the counter, patiently chatting with a young man. Elsie doubted he'd heard a word she said. He was openly staring at the tall, blonde woman with clear blue eyes.

"Don't be so sure they're only here for her, Miss Hughes." The older woman said quietly. "I've seen more than one young fellow light up when you're out front."

Elsie blushed. It was like Mrs. Schwartzmann to be nice, but she was sure it wasn't true. Penelope Avilov was the wonder of the neighborhood, probably in all of St Louis. Who would look at a short Scottish girl next to her? She never considered herself to be particularly pretty. It never bothered her before, and it didn't now...well, very much. It helped that Pen was the nicest person Elsie had ever known.

The young man eventually made his purchases and left. Two others who had waited impatiently did the same, the last looking especially annoyed. Elsie thought it was because he had been helped by Mr. Schwartzmann. The owner closed the wooden shades. Pen leaned in the doorway of the back room.

"Do you have much longer, Elsie? Vasili went to Clayton, and the _brat'ya*_ will be upset if I walk home alone."

"I'm finished here." Elsie looked up at Mrs. Schwartzmann. "Unless you need something else?"

"No. You've done excellent work today. As always." Helen smiled. "We'll see you both tomorrow." She followed the women to the front to lock the door. Mr. Schwartzmann was seated at the tiny desk in the corner. He nodded at them as they passed by, his spectacles balancing on the end of his nose.

"You should have asked him to take over behind the counter, or asked me." Elsie said as they crossed the street.

Pen sighed, brushing a stray hair away. "I know. But you do such fine work. Better than Mrs. Schwartzmann. Don't tell her I said that." She grinned. "And I hate to ask Mr. Schwartzmann. His leg bothers him, especially later in the day."

"That's true. Thanks for the compliment. I won't say a word." Elsie grinned back, then stopped on the wooden sidewalk. "Don't you think that color's lovely?" She gazed through the window at the hat on display.

"It would go well with your hair. That blue would make the auburn stand out more." Pen yawned. "I'm sorry. I went with Papa last night. They gave him four encores! I never thought we would get to leave."

"I'd like to hear him play sometime. Maybe he could give a concert at St. James*."

"If they have a piano, he'd do it. But not if the priest only wants to convert him."

The women turned onto Tamm Avenue. Elsie turned her head sharply at the sound of a whistle. The offender stared back at her only for a moment before looking away. Snorting in indignation, Elsie put her arm through Pen's. "I don't know how you stand it. Such rudeness."

Pen laughed out loud. "They can't hurt me, not with you here. Elsie, did you see him? You could scare a wild horse with that look!"

"Really?" Elsie was surprised.

"Mmm." Pen tried to stop, but another giggle burst out. "You can be quite fierce, you know. I hope I'm never on the receiving end of one of your glares."

"I can't see that ever happening."

"Oh!" Pen stopped, pointing across the street. "That's the bakery I was telling you about-the one with the delicious pies! It looks like they're still open. Do you have time?" She was almost like a small child, dancing in place. Further down the street, the bells at St. James tolled the quarter hour.

"All right. I don't have to be home until half seven." Elsie checked her bag. She didn't have much, but there was enough for something for Becky.

The bell over the door rang as they entered. The warm air inside was almost too much, considering the heat outside, but it smelled like fresh bread. A dark-haired man with a flour-covered apron looked up as they came in.

"You're just in time. I was about to close up." His accent brought back a memory to Elsie. _Yorkshire?_ He blinked rapidly, looking at Pen. "Don't I know you, miss?"

"Yes, Mr. Philpotts. It's Miss Avilov."

He slapped a hand on the counter. "That's right. Three brothers at home and you've a sweet tooth yourself."

Blushing, Pen nodded. "Your wife makes wonderful pies."

"Thank you. I'm afraid there's not much left today. There's a blackberry here, if you're interested."

Behind the door in the back, something crashed to the floor. Two voices, women, started shouting at each other. Mr. Philpotts jumped. "Oh dear, not again. If you ladies will excuse me-" He rushed back, the door swinging as he went. Pen and Elsie looked at each other, eyebrows raised.

"Mrs. Philpotts and her sister." Pen explained, a smile playing on her lips. "They fight like cats and dogs all the time. But their bark is worse than their bite. Or I've been told."

The door swung open and a girl came through, wiping her hands off. "All right, Kate! I'll look after them!" She shouted through the swinging door. Her face was red from heat, and her hair was a shocking orange color, wiry curls sticking out from under her cap. She stopped abruptly, staring at Pen.

"I don't mean to be rude miss, but what I've heard is true. 'Miss Avilov IS the Russian Amazon!'"

Elsie's mouth dropped before she bit her lip to keep the burst of laughter in. Pen smiled indulgently. From what Elsie could see, her friend was at least three heads taller than the girl gaping at her.

"Well, the Russian Amazon would like this blackberry pie, if you please."

The girl stumbled on her apron, then moved forward to pull the pie from the display. "Of course, Miss Avilov. I'm sorry, I say too much, Kate's always on me-'Beryl, you can talk the rain dry', she tells me-"

She continued on as she placed the pie on the counter and Pen paid. Elsie thought that talking the rain dry wasn't far off. Her friend seemed to find the situation amusing. Finally, Beryl stopped talking long enough to notice Elsie.

"Hello, miss." She held out her hand. Elsie took it, for once feeling rather tall. "I'm Beryl Robinson."

"I'm Elsie Hughes, Miss Robinson." Beryl's eyes widened.

"Well, I never! You're from Scotland, aren't you? How long have you been in America?" Elsie fought back another laugh.

"My mother, sister and I came over in June. My father's been here for two years."

"So not long for you then." Beryl rubbed her hands together. "What can I get for you? We've got biscuits - the _real_ kind here." Her eyes twinkled. "These Yanks have the funniest names for things-"

"BERYL!" A woman's voice suddenly screeched from the back. "I TOLD YOU TO LOOK AFTER THE LADIES, NOT TAKE A TRIP UP THE NILE!"

Beryl rolled her eyes. "I'll be just a minute, Kate!" She yelled back through the door. Without missing a beat, she dropped two cinnamon biscuits into a bag. "Here you are. These are some of my favorites."

"I've only got enough for one." Elsie didn't want to admit it, but neither did she want to cheat the baker.

"Oh never mind that." Beryl waved her hand dismissively. "That one's on me, go share it with your sister, if you're the sharing type."

"Thank you, Miss Robinson." Elsie swallowed. Every penny she earned was that much more for the family. Any gift, however small, was appreciated.

"You're welcome, Miss Hughes. And please call me Beryl. No one calls me Miss Robinson except the vicar."

"Thank you, Beryl." A warm smile spread across Elsie's face. "I'm sure we'll be back again."

"I hope so. If the dragon hasn't scared you off." She whispered theatrically behind her hand before speaking in a normal tone. "Good evening, Miss Avilov."

"Good evening, Beryl." Elsie held open the door as Pen carried her pie. The two stopped on the wooden sidewalk. "A 'trip up the Nile'?" They repeated at the same time, before bursting into laughter.

"Oh, I thought I'd heard everything!" Pen giggled, clutching the pie. Elsie gasped, trying to get her breath back, but Pen started laughing again and set her off. She wasn't able to stop for another block.

"Oh my, that is not what I was expecting." Elsie said, wiping tears from her eyes. "I haven't tasted these biscuits yet, but I'll go back for the conversation."

"I'll go back for the pie." Pen grinned wickedly before sighing. "I won't get much of this one." On the front porch of her house, two of her brothers were waiting. Like their sister, they were tall (albeit broader) with blond hair. Sandy got up from the rocking chair. Viktor reached for the pie, but Pen slapped his hand. " _Nyet, vy ne mozhete imet' yego seychas!_ "* She gave him a light punch on the arm. "Elsie, I'll see you in the morning."

"Good evening, Pen." Elsie walked for two more blocks, still chuckling. Her father and Becky were rocking on the porch.

"You're smiling. It must have been a good day, lass."

"It was." Elsie opened the bag and pulled out a biscuit, handing it to Becky. "This is for you. Give Da a piece!" She ruffled her sister's hair.

Ewan took half of the crumbling biscuit. "Supper's almost ready, but maybe just this once. Not so fast, Becky." He gently wiped his daughter's face. He swallowed his half, raising his eyebrows. " did you get that?"

"From the bakery down the street." Elsie smiled wide. "They're good people. I didn't ask, but it sounds like they come from Yorkshire. The younger sister marked me as a Scot right off."

"A new friend, maybe?" Ewan smiled, then glanced down at Becky, who was licking her fingers. "Well, young missy, let's go clean your hands. We won't tell your Mam about the biscuit, will we?"

Elsie followed them into the warm house, clutching the bag. She would save her biscuit for later. And tell Mam and Da about the Nile.

 **I've been thinking of this meeting for a long time. We can't have anything about Elsie without Beryl, can we? No, we can't. Please read and review if you have time.**

*brat'ya - Russian for brothers, or so the Internet tells me.

*St. James the Greater Catholic Church

*Russian translation - "No, you can't have it now." Again, just what the interwebs say. I don't speak Russian.


	5. A New Hat

**A little encouragement goes a long way. Thank you for reading this and for the kind words! I'm changing the rating, due to a racial epithet. I mean no disrespect to anyone.**

 _St. Louis, September 1882_

Grigg twirled in a circle and doffed his hat. To his left, Charles mimicked the action a beat later. They tapped in a dizzying tempo across the stage as the accompanist pounded out a lively tune. When the music stopped, they stopped immediately. Grigg dropped his hat and bent over, clutching his knees. Charles sank into a crouch before sitting down. He then fell over, flat on his back, his chest heaving.

"I think that will do for now, gentlemen. Mr. Cohan!" The accompanist barked from the piano, scowling. Still gasping for breath, the two Charlies jumped down from the stage and sat down in the audience. Jere got up, looking worried.

"Blimey." Grigg fanned himself with his hat. "He's keen, ain't he? How many times did he have us do the dance?"

"Six times." Alice said. She turned to Charles, a crease between her eyes. "Are you all right, Charlie?"

"Perfectly well, Miss Neal." _As if I would say anything else right now._ He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his red face, breathing heavily. "I could do with a drink, though."

"After Alice is finished, we thought we'd go to the Anheuser-Busch Brewery."* Jamie leaned over from the seat behind him. "Their beer's not bad."

"I've had it. Tastes like water." Grigg grunted, getting to his feet. "It's not worth your time, Charlie, believe me." He stretched his arms over his head. "Well, I'm off. Cece and I are having dinner, so I'll see you in the morning before curtain's up." Slapping Charles on the shoulder, he laughed at the expressions around him.

"What?" He shook his head, and walked towards backstage.

"We thought they were sweethearts, didn't we?" Josephine said, glancing at Alice.

"You knew?" Charles said, feeling hurt. He thought that certainly if she knew, she would have told him. Especially something about Grigg.

Huffing a breath, Alice slipped another pin into her hair. "She likes him. He likes her. What is there to know?" Her voice was curiously flat.

Charles was about to ask what was wrong, when Jamie chortled and pointed at the stage. "Look there. Even Jere's being put through his paces." In front of them, Jere was dancing his way through "Larry O'Leary" for the third time. His cheeks were bright red.

"You know why the piano man's so angry? Eugene hired a _real_ pianist to fill in the show." Josephine pressed her lips in a thin line. "That's why he's been running all of us ragged. Mr. Brown's been working at this theater since his brother-in-law built it. He fancied himself practically as good as Chopin."

"Until yesterday." Jamie broke in. "Eugene told him he was lucky to keep him on - as an accompanist. And after hearing Mr. Avilov, I have to agree with him. That man does things on a piano I've never heard before."

"Mr. _Avilov_?" Charles groaned. "He sounds Russian to me."

"He is." Jamie raised his eyebrows. "What does that have to do with the way he plays?"

Charles kept silent. He couldn't exactly say why it bothered him. What _did_ it matter?

"You are very narrow-minded." Jamie smoothed his hair from his forehead. "I think you're in the wrong profession."

"He didn't mean that." Alice said quickly. "You're still getting used to being in a country where not everyone speaks English, right, Charlie?"

"Precisely. Thank you, Miss Neal." Charles's stomach dropped, even as he grasped at the excuse. It wouldn't be the first time that he'd questioned his profession. And narrow-minded! How dare Jamie say such a thing! It was hypocrisy at its finest - he'd heard the American tell a joke about a Chinaman* only days before.

His thoughts were disturbed by a distant yell backstage. Moments later, a four-year-old boy came tearing across the stage, jumped off, and ran up the aisle as if his life depended on it. Grigg was right behind him.

"You little blighter! You DEVIL!"

Jere stopped dancing and jumped off the stage, grabbing Grigg's arm. "Georgie! Stop right there!"

Charles jumped up from his chair and stood in the aisle. Georgie couldn't stop his momentum, ran into him, and fell over. He immediately got up and hid behind Charles's legs. Grigg approached, still being held back by Jere.

"C'mere, you-"

"Grigg! Control yourself." Jere gave his son a stern look. "George Michael Cohan, what did you do?"

"Nothing, Dad." The dark-haired boy hid his face behind Charles's knee.

"Nothing, my eye!" Grigg roared. "He thought it'd be funny to meddle with things that ain't his! Poured ink in my shoes! Ruined Cece's best dress! Poked holes in Alice's hat-"

" _What_?" Charles and Alice yelled at once. Alice and Josephine ran down the aisle and backstage. Georgie wore a toothy smile, which disappeared when he saw Charles's glare. His chin quivered.

Without a word, Jere reached down and pried his son off Charles, his face grim. Georgie bawled, his cries echoing in the large room. Jere picked him up and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and headed toward the doors leading to the lobby.

"Mr. Grigg, I'll bring him back to apologize later." The door banged shut behind them.

"He'd better." Grigg snarled. Charles was relieved to see he had calmed down.

"This is no way to run a theater!" Blustering, Mr. Brown slammed the cover of the piano down. "Tell Miss Neal if she does not appear on this stage in five minutes, I am leaving! She can perform tomorrow without practice if she wants to!"

"I'll tell her." Charles said quietly as he and Grigg hurried backstage. "She loved that hat, even though she's had it for a while."

"Better her than me." Grigg fumed next to him as he opened the door to their dressing room. "I bought those shoes only after we got here. If Jere doesn't whip the hide off that little bugger, then _I_ will. He should thank God he's not mine."

 _Yes, thank God_. "Jere didn't look like he was taking Georgie on a picnic. I doubt he'll do it again."

Charles left Grigg in their dressing room. He tapped on the next door and opened it when he heard Josephine.

Alice sat in one corner; Cece sat in the other, crying. Josephine was trying to comfort her, but it didn't look like she was succeeding. The ruined dress lay half-crumpled on the floor. Ink still dripped off of it.

"Miss Neal." She looked up at his voice. He hated to see her red-rimmed eyes. "Mr. Brown's leaving immediately, unless you can catch him. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Charlie." She brushed past him, choking back a sob. He picked up her hat. Fingering the torn trim, he put his thumb over one of the holes. The other was small, just the size of a child's finger. His anger flared. How could he make this better? How could he make her feel better?

"She was going to wear that to the Octoberfest.*" Josephine patted Cece's back. "She has others to wear on stage, but that's her favorite. The one she wears outside."

"I know," snapped Charles, pinching his nose. Miss Carter was rarely helpful with her comments. Gossips, her and Jamie alike.

"I told her she should get a new hat, anyway. Her birthday's next month."

"I know." Charles repeated. He set the useless hat down and went back to his dressing room. Grigg stood up when he came in.

"Charlie, your old shoes are too big, but can I borrow them? Just for the evening? Cece won't be wanting to go out, I figure."

"No, she most definitely will not." Charles sat down on his hard wooden chair. "And I'm surprised you still want to."

"Just for a drink." Grigg sounded defensive. "Want to clear my head, that's all."

"Oh fine, take my shoes. I'm surprised you can walk in them."

"A little, anyway. Thanks, mate." He pulled on the shoes, grabbed his hat, and left.

Charles waited until the door shut. He stood listening, making sure no one else was outside. After a moment, he went to his dressing table and opened the drawer. Unwrapping a handkerchief, he pulled out a thin black glove. Kissing it softly, he held it in both hands, marveling at how small it looked in his huge hands. So delicate.

He sighed in frustration.

He felt like he and Alice had developed-well, a connection, for lack of a better word. She had told him about her childhood, what little it was. It was more than she'd told anyone. And it was the same for him. He'd never said a word to anyone else about Downton. But she kept holding back. One day, she would blush at a compliment from him. There were days when barely a word would pass between them, and he would torture himself over what he'd said or done to make her withdraw. And then she would come out from behind whatever cloud she'd hidden behind, give him that dazzling smile, and all would be well.

He wanted to let her know, not in words, not yet, that she meant more to him than just being friends. That she could trust him. That he cared for her. He thought she felt the same. Why else would she have given him her glove?

Charles had never felt this way about a woman. Ever. Of that he was certain. He wasn't sure how to proceed, but surely there was _something_ -

He blinked. Her birthday. Of course.

 ***Anheuser-Busch Brewery. The most famous and well-known brewery in St. Louis. If you've ever had Budweiser, that's where it comes from.**

 ***Chinaman. A perjorative term for immigrants from China or East Asia to the U.S. in the 19th century.**

 ***Octoberfest. St. Louis was full of German immigrants. I'm assuming there would have been at least one festival in the area at the time.**


	6. Things I Don't Say

**Oh, boy. This one's a whopper. I hope I haven't lost anyone with this - plenty of angst here. I'm trying to express what young Elsie is feeling. Thanks for reading!**

 _St. Louis, September 1882_

"May I ask you something, Elsie?"

It was a clear Sunday afternoon. Pen, Elsie and Beryl were out enjoying the weather, along with most of St Louis. After suffering through the oppressive summer heat, five days of rain had finally cooled things off.

"You just did." Elsie grinned. Pen rolled her eyes, while Beryl laughed in between them.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"How long, oh Lord?" Beryl held her arms out wide, up to heaven. Elsie broke into giggles again.

"Oh, all right. Ask me anything."

Pen stopped. The other two turned and looked at her.

"Why can't I meet Becky?"

Elsie's heart sank as she closed her eyes. She didn't blame Pen for asking. The previous Sunday, Pen had invited her and Beryl to her house to meet her entire family. It was only reasonable that she should do the same.

"I've wanted to ask the same thing myself," Beryl said, putting her hands on her hips and raising her eyebrows.

Wetting her lips, Elsie stalled. "You don't know what you're asking." Her voice wobbled on the last word.

"I don't want to be rude, but we are friends, aren't we?" Pen asked. Elsie nodded, trying frantically to figure out what to say. If it was only Pen alone, or Beryl, Elsie was confident that she could put it off. But not the two of them together.

"Then I think I deserve an explanation." Pen was not angry. But there was a firmness in her voice that did not brook opposition. "You say she's ill. I would never call you a liar, Elsie Hughes, but your cousin Mrs. McNally told me quite clearly that she took two of her daughters _and_ Becky to play near Skinker Swamp* last Monday before it rained. Now how can that be, if she's ill?"

"She's not ill, exactly...but she's not well." Elsie's heart raced. "I shouldn't have said that." She swallowed. "I don't lie, but there are things I don't say."

"Like what?" Beryl asked. "Either she's ill or she's not."

Elsie fought back tears. Part of her wanted to tell her friends. She wanted to trust them, but had never found the courage to do so. There was only one other person whom she had told before, and that person had never met Becky.

She had wanted to invite both her friends for Sunday tea several times, but could never figure out a way to do it without involving her sister. Patrick, Ailsa and their many children lived two doors down from their rented house and it seemed one or more of their cousins was always in the back garden or in the kitchen. The children played constantly at either house, and on the street in between. But they were _family_.

Elsie was no fool. She knew the neighbors had to know about Becky; it wasn't as if her parents were hiding her away. But no one had said anything yet. And in her heart, Elsie was waiting for the day when someone would.

Would her friends look at her and her family differently if they knew? Would it be like Argyll all over again?

There was only one way to find out. She could not hide the truth from them forever.

"Let's go sit down, over there." Pen could see Elsie was upset. She steered her over to the curb beside the now-quiet St. James Church. The three of them sat. There was a very long silence.

"My sister Becky was born...She's not quite right in the head." Elsie spoke so quickly that she wasn't sure if they understood her.

Neither of her friends said anything.

"She'll never...'grow up', so to speak. She's four now, and she won't behave much older than that, no matter how long she lives."

Still nothing.

"She looks different from you and I." Elsie took a deep breath. "She's got a weak heart. When she was born, we didn't know if she was going to live." She clenched her fists, remembering.

"The doctor in Argyll called her a...a 'Mongoloid'*." The word tasted foul in her mouth. "He told my parents it would be better for them, and for me, if she died. Da threw him out of the house."

"Good for him." Beryl said in a low voice. Elsie glanced at her. She was wiping her eyes, but otherwise did not seem to be fazed. Pen put an arm around her shoulders.

"Oh, Elsie. What did other people say?"

Elsie's chest tightened. There were some things she would rather forget.

"Some people pitied us. Those were the kind souls, even if most of them thought we should send her away. Others..." She bit her lip. "Our hired man left. Said Mam and Da must have done something wicked to have a child like that. The local parson, Mr. McIntyre, thought the same. He refused to baptize her."

" _What_!?" Pen burst out. For the first time since Elsie had met her, she looked furious. Beryl's face was a dark shade of maroon.

"It's true. Mam had an old friend, a girl she knew from her childhood, who had married a churchman. We had to go all the way to Lochgilphead, but Da didn't care. It was worth it - Mr. Thompson was very gentle, and very kind." Her throat closed up. How strange that kindness could cause more tears than cruelty.

Beryl moved over, putting her arm around Elsie. "Well. I'm glad someone showed _some_ Christian virtue." She handed her her handkerchief. "Is that why your father came here then? Because the folks over there treated you all badly?"

Shaking her head, Elsie wiped her nose. "No, not the only reason. The harvest had failed three years in a row before Becky was born. Da tried, but there was no saving the farm. I doubt he would have stayed, regardless of what people thought of us. We had to eat somehow."

Hunger. Elsie had gotten used to it, growing up. It was a regular occurance to go to bed with food in her belly, but that gnawing sense of _not quite full_. Until she went to Winthrop House. There, she had both food and plenty of company. She had gotten used to being lonely on the farm, but she didn't mind it there. Da used to joke that he had sheep so that there would be someone to talk to.

"What did you think when Becky was born?" Pen's voice brought Elsie back to the present. A warm smile blossomed over her face. _The best day of my life._

"I was beyond happy." She whispered, feeling tears pricking her eyes. Joy. "I was sixteen years old, and had been an only child my entire life. And then I was a sister. I wasn't alone any more."

"I didn't care what she looked like, or what anyone said. Becky was _my_ little sister. I would do anything to make her happy." _**Will**_ _do anything._

"Pen and I don't know anything about that." Beryl said, an impish gleam in her eye. "I've got two older sisters, and they used to look at me like something the cat had dragged in."

"Speak for yourself, Beryl! The _brats_ never hated me, they just didn't know what to do with a sister instead of another boy."

"Hate's too strong a word. Intense dislike would be more accurate." Beryl sighed. "Anyway, it had more to do with being the youngest, you'd know that! I'm sure you've heard it a thousand times in Russian, 'She gets away with everything'."

"True." Pen laughed. Elsie stood up.

"They'll be at home now. Would you like to come and meet her?"

"Can we? Now?" Pen asked as they walked down the street. "I mean, your parents haven't invited us."

"No, but they've heard a lot about both of you, and have said they want to meet you. They won't mind."

Elsie's heart pounded. Perhaps she was being too forward, assuming too much. But when else would they meet her?

The sound of laughter bubbled from the back garden. Becky's high giggle, Da's lower voice. A loud shriek from one of the girls - Grace?

Da was playing tag with Becky and two of their young cousins. Watching from over the fence, Elsie couldn't help but smile at the look on the little girls' faces. And it looked as if Da was having just as much fun as they were. Mam hummed as she worked in the garden. Annie squealed, holding Becky's hand as they tried to run out of Da's reach.

Elsie cleared her throat as she opened the gate. "Mother?"

Rhona Hughes looked up. Her eyes widened slightly, but she made her way over to them, pulling off her gloves. Behind her, Ewan brushed his trousers off.

"Mother, Da," Elsie began, her heart painfully throbbing. "This is Miss Penelope Avilov and Miss Beryl Robinson. Pen and Beryl, these are my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Hughes."

"Miss Avilov, Miss Robinson." Rhona shook their hands in turn, smiling. "We've heard so much about both of you."

"All good things." Ewan looked at Pen. "Your brother Vasili is a good man. More than once he's carried lumber for me on a hot day. I try to pay him back by helping him with his English. Though I don't know how successful a Scotsman can be!"

"He's doing much better, thank you, Mr. Hughes. If I can learn English from a Welsh teacher and Irish schoolmates, a Scotsman should be more than up to the task."

"I wondered where the lilt came from. Elsie told me you were born in America." Rhona glanced at her older daughter.

"I was." Pen said. "As time goes on, I find I sound more 'American', although working at Schwartzmann's has probably contributed. Many older immigrants I've spoken with say working in a shop does that. But maybe not everyone." She grinned at Beryl.

"You can take the girl out of Yorkshire, but you can't take Yorkshire out of the girl." Beryl said, shrugging her shoulders. "Mrs. Hughes, you have a lovely garden."

As her mother talked of the different flowers she was growing, Elsie stepped back for a moment. Annie and Grace had taken Becky by the hands and were playing a quiet game of "Ring a Ring O' Roses". They fell down as Elsie approached.

"Here, love." She held out her arms to Becky who ran to her. Picking her up, she turned back to the group by the fence. "Och, you're getting heavy." Ewan turned and gathered his youngest daughter into his arms.

"This is Rebecca, or Becky as everyone calls her. Becky, this is Miss Avilov and Miss Robinson."

For a moment, Becky hid her face in her father's neck. Then she looked up at the two young women. Elsie could see both of her friends' expressions. The pure love that she saw took her breath away, and she had to turn aside for a moment to collect herself. By the time she was sure she wouldn't cry, Pen was holding Becky.

"Pen. Can you say Pen?" Beryl softly touched the little girl's brown hair.

"Peeeen."

"Good! Can you say Beryl? _Berr-ull._ "

"Berra. Berry!" Becky chirped. The Hughes' all laughed, Elsie slipping an arm around her mother.

"I suppose we'll have to call you Berry from now on." Pen said, gently untangling Becky's fingers from her hair. Annie tugged on Elsie's skirt.

"Elsie? Grace and I have to go home. Mr. Gallagher's coming to tea."

Rhona turned. "It was good of you to come and play with Becky, my dears."

"It was fun!" Grace danced up and down.

"Annie, tell your mother I will come by tomorrow. And give Bridget and Mr. Gallagher our congratulations."

As the girls left, Pen put Becky down. Ewan went inside and brought out a book to read. He and Becky settled on the back porch, while the four women chatted in the garden.

"I didn't realize they were engaged." Pen said. "How long has he been calling on Bridget?"

"Only since April, apparently." Elsie said. "We were surprised."

"She _is_ only eighteen." Rhona admitted. "But Patrick and Ailsa are happy with the man their daughter loves, so we shouldn't question it."

"I'm glad I'm only sixteen now. I'm too young for such nonsense." Beryl snorted before realizing she had. "Oh, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hughes."

Rhona tried to hide a laugh behind her hand but failed. Elsie pretended to give her friend a glare.

"Just you wait." Pen raised her eyebrows. "Another year and everyone here will be wondering which young man will court you."

"Another year and you and Elsie will be married off and won't be bothered as to whether I'm courting someone or not!"

"Pen will, most likely, more than me. She's quite popular at Schwartzmann's." Elsie said, forcing a smile. As the two questioned Mam about Bridget's wedding, she let her mind wander.

Meeting Becky had gone so much better than she had dreamed. Perhaps here they did have family, friends and neighbors who would accept her sister, and love her.

 _It isn't the same for you._

Abruptly, she turned to go into the house.

"Els?" Mam asked, a question in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, I have a headache." She touched her forehead.

"We should go, we're imposing on you and your family." Pen waved at Da and Becky, who waved back. "Mrs. Hughes, it was very nice meeting you." Beryl murmured in agreement before waving at Becky.

"Bye, Berry!" Beryl blew her a kiss.

"We'll have to have you both for tea soon." Mam said. Elsie raised her hand as they left. She went inside, closing the bedroom door behind her. She lay down on the bed, eyes staring unseeing at the ceiling.

It wasn't the same. They may be her friends, and they may care for Becky, but they didn't share the same obligation.

She swallowed, remembering the day her sister was born. That Becky would forever be the little sister, dependent on her, had not changed Elsie's feelings. She would always love Becky, she said. It didn't matter that her sister would never attend school, had to be watched constantly, was whispered about almost from the first time she was seen by other people. Her parents had never used the word, would never use it, but Becky was...a burden.

It felt like a betrayal to even think it. Elsie got up and sat at the small desk, where her few precious books were placed. She opened _Persuasion_ , and lifted out an envelope with a letter inside.

Would it do any good to read it again? Would it change anything?

Da was happy here. It was hard work, but at least he didn't work _in_ the mine. And Mam was happier too, although a lot of it had to be that she was with Da again, not separated by an ocean. And Becky? Becky was happy anywhere.

 _What about you? Are you happy here?_

She shook her head, dropping the letter on the desk. _It doesn't matter what_ _ **I**_ _think, Elsie Hughes. Think of Mam and Da. Think of Becky, for goodness' sake! You need to do right by them. Thinking of yourself won't do anyone any good._

The problem was that here she had seen a glimpse of another way. She no longer knew if she had the strength to do right by her family, and ignore her own feelings at the same time.

When Elsie began working as a housemaid, she saw it as a way to take care of her family. To take care of Becky, in the long run. Her heart ached at the thought of her only sister being under someone else's care, but she would not be able to do so herself without them falling into poverty. What else could she do? Mam and Da would not live forever. _She_ had to find a way to honor them, like the commandment said, and to take care of Becky.

No matter what she felt. She picked up the letter and opened it again.

 _20 March 1882_

 _My Dear Elsie,_

 _I must admit I was saddened to receive your letter. I understand your desire to be with your family and to see your father again, but I beg you not to be hasty as you consider your future. Please know I have no wish to separate you from those you love. I only wish to remind you of your value to this house, and potentially to others as well._

 _You are the finest housemaid I have ever seen. You see things to be done where others do not, and you never shirk your duties. You finish your tasks in a timely fashion. In two years, I nor anyone else at Winthrop can accuse you of idleness. I never told you, but after Lady Campbell dismissed Amelia, Sir Henry ordered me_ _not_ _to hire another maid. He and his wife were convinced that with you on staff, three maids could serve for four - as long as you were one of the three._

 _You are determined to go to America; very well, I will not attempt to dissuade you. However, remember that the ships do not only sail west. You can come back, if you change your mind. This is what I particularly wanted to tell you._

 _As I previously shared with you, I still intend to serve here as housekeeper for the next three years, and then, God willing, I will retire. Until that time, if you wish to return, you will be most happily welcomed back. I must convey the wishes of Sir Henry and Lady Campbell that if you do return, you will be given the position of Head Housemaid and be paid 30 pounds per year*. If you wish to return after I have retired, you shall still be given the position. (If I have been gone for longer than one year, Lady Campbell will give you an excellent reference to any place to which you may apply.) This offer may seem excessive to you, but I assure you, it is not. I have no doubt that were you to become Head Housemaid, that you would easily work your way up to a Housekeeper's position in a few years._

 _I am aware that you may wish to not return to Scotland, or to Britain at all. You may find a better position, as you have said. It may be that in America the wages are higher. Bear in mind, though, that you will eventually have to pay for your room and board, whilst in service it is provided for you. I know that you expressed the desire to not be a burden to your parents, especially considering your sister's health. I feel privileged that you trusted me with her condition._

 _You have never said if you wished to be married. In this, you have kept your own counsel, and it is yet another credit to you. I would no more attempt to question you in regards to your heart than I would expect you to question me. But I can tell you that it is impossible to see the future. Maybe you will meet a young man during the crossing. Maybe someone will catch your eye in a new country. Or perhaps not. If you do wish to be married someday, however, let me caution you. Even if you wished to (and I doubt you would), it would not be prudent to keep the truth about your sister from your husband. You must know that there are not many men who would be willing to support a sister-in-law indefinitely, as well as a family. Such a man would have to be someone with a heart of gold, and I have doubts as to whether any such man exists._

 _I beg your pardon if I have offended you. I wish to tell these things to you openly, as a friend would. The housekeeper in me is aware that my position does not give me the liberty to be friends with anyone under me. In this circumstance, then, I am glad at the moment that you no longer work here._

 _Whatever way you choose to go, my thoughts and prayers will go with you._

 _Fondly,_

 _A. Donnelly_

Her head was telling her one thing, her heart another, and there was no way of telling which way was the right way to go.

 ***Skinker Swamp. Yes, it really was called that.**

 ***Mongoloid. Perverse name for those with Down's Syndrome.**

 **Coming up next: Charles meets a fiery Scottish lass.**


	7. Stuck

**A/N: They FINALLY meet. This has been in my brain for awhile; one of the reasons why this story started percolating to begin with. I hope you enjoy this! Also, I will get to reviews as soon as possible, sorry for the delay.**

 _St. Louis. October 12, 1882_

The day had begun so well.

A large piece of the set had fallen onto the stage between shows and left a hole in the floor. It was a small one, but still a hole. Eugene was furious. All of the afternoon shows were canceled while the carpenter worked on it.

Charles was secretly thrilled. Here was the opportunity he had been looking for. While most of the others made plans to spend the day in Tower Grove Park, he hurried to the dressing room. He exited wearing his best suit and nearly collided with Nellie.

"Oh!" He gasped. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Cohan-"

"It's no trouble, Charlie." She laughed. "We're all in a hurry to get out to the sunshine."

"Including Josie and Georgie."

" _Especially_ them." She sighed as they walked down the hall. "They get so little time outdoors."

"Are you all going to Tower Grove as well?" Charles frowned slightly. "I think Grigg, the Carters, Miss Edwards and Miss Neal are going on a picnic there."

She nodded in understanding. "Yes, we're going as well. Don't worry. Jere says it's a big space. We won't run into anyone who doesn't want us around."

The episode with the ink had left its mark. Nellie raised her eyebrows. "I'm surprised you're not going with them. I thought there was at least _one_ person here whose company you prefer."

Charles felt his face grow warm. "Well, yes, I mean-" He stuttered, then grew silent. Nellie laughed out loud as he opened the door outside. "I want to buy Miss Neal a new hat." He half-whispered. "Her birthday is next week."

"That's lovely, Charlie. Do you know a good shop?" Josie ran over to her mother, swinging her hand.

"C'mon, Mama, let's go!"

"No. Do you know a good place?" He hoped she did. He had not traveled much in the city, other than between the boardinghouse and the theater.

"Just a moment, dear." She touched her daughter's cheek before turning back to Charles. "There's a good milliner on Oakland Avenue. West of here. It's a bit of a walk, but it's not a bad day for it. They have a good selection there."

Charles smiled and tipped his hat. "Thank you, Mrs. Cohan. I hope you all have a wonderful time."

"The same to you. Courage!" She whispered as Josie dragged at her hand again. "Alice likes you, too. I know it."

He took a deep breath. "I think so."

"I hope you find what you're looking for." She winked, then she and Josie ran across the street where Jere and Georgie were waiting. Charles gave them a wave before heading in the opposite direction.

The leaves on the trees had changed color over the last week. Bright reds, oranges, and yellows popped in his vision in front of a background of the bluest sky he had ever seen. The weather had finally cooled, but the sunshine provided just enough warmth to be comfortable. Charles hummed to himself as he turned on Oakland Avenue.

It was a beautiful day, and he was young and in love. What could go wrong?

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Elsie looked through the basket one last time. Tea, bread, some strawberry jam. Cold chicken and crisp red apples. Scones from Beryl. She hummed, wondering which book she should take along.

"Da said you should take Robert Burns with you." Mam nodded at the table. Elsie smiled. She picked up the well-worn title, running her thumb over the title.

"Of course he would. I don't mind. I haven't read it in a long time." She tucked it into the basket.

It was a treat. First to go on a picnic at all, and during the week at that! She and Pen had been stunned when the Schwartzmanns told them they were closing the store for a few days. The women had both offered to work, to keep it open, but the owners held firm. They always gave themselves three days off for Octoberfest. It was only fair to extend the holiday to their assistants. Helen was also anxious to see their daughter, due soon with her second child. When Mr. Schwartzmann gave them their wages on Wednesday after closing, Elsie nearly cried. One week's wages for only three days' work! Neither she nor Pen could argue with that.

So Elsie found herself on a perfect Thursday in autumn, walking to Pen's house. She climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door. To her surprise, Mrs. Avilov answered.

"Hello, Mrs. Avilov." Elsie said awkwardly. She knew the older woman could only understand a few words of English. "Is Penelope at home?"

"I'm here, Elsie." Pen shuffled to the door behind her mother. Her nose was swollen and red. She sighed. "I'm so sorry, but I can't go on our picnic. I woke up this morning-" She stopped, coughing.

"You've got a cold, Pen. You should be in bed." Elsie tried to sound firm as her heart sank. Mrs. Avilov put her arm around her daughter as if to draw her back inside. Pen said something quickly to her, and the older woman retreated into the hallway.

"It's just a cold. I'll be all right in a few days." She squinted into the sun. "You should go to Skinker today. It would be a waste not to be outside."

"Don't worry about me. You get some rest."

"I will." Pen gave her a wan smile then shut the door.

Elsie stood for a moment on their porch. Her shoulders slumped in disappointment. She had been looking forward to this day all week. Just a day to spend with a friend. For a minute, she thought about going home. But she and Mam were planning to go to Ailsa's on Friday to help with Bridget's wedding. They would be busy all day.

She tried to remember whether she had ever had a day to herself since she was a child. She couldn't.

Skinker Swamp was only a few blocks away, but it felt like a world apart. A gentle breeze blew through the tops of the trees. It sounded like they were whispering to each other. The swamp itself was mostly quiet. During the summer, the noise of the crickets and frogs made such a racket it was impossible to hear herself think. But not today.

Elsie found a dry spot under a tree and spread the old blanket out. She peered through the leaves, looking up. The bells at St. James had tolled noon as she was leaving Pen's. There was enough food to last through tea-time. _Plenty of time, girl_. She pulled out a piece of chicken and an apple. She was sorry Pen couldn't come, and that Beryl had to work. But she was going to enjoy herself, and not worry about anything for once.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He first noticed it when he had walked several blocks down Oakland. A mother with her child, who gave him directions. He thought she had looked at him strangely. Two other women stared at him openly in the milliner's shop. The milliner had been polite, if curt. By the time Charles had left and walked back into the sunshine, he was rattled. What was the matter with everyone? It hit him as he left the grocer's store with bread, cheese and a small bottle of wine.

The brogue. It was as if someone had dropped him in the middle of Dublin. With his Yorkshire accent, he stuck out like a sore thumb. Anger coursed through him. Wasn't America supposed to be welcoming? Maybe they only meant it for the Irish. _Narrow-minded Charlie_. Easy for Jamie to say. He was born here. He already belonged.

 _Where do you belong? Where can you feel steady?_

He stomped down the street, his face like a thundercloud. He needed to find a place away from anyone until he cooled down. Someplace where he could think. But where could he find a quiet place in one of the biggest cities* in America? A man carrying a saddle stopped at Charles's voice.

"Skinker Swamp," The man pointed to his right. "Over there. It's a popular place to walk, kids like to play there. Ain't no one gonna be there today though, not during the week. It'll be quiet enough for ya."

"Thank you." Charles walked away, grateful that he had managed to ask someone who looked and sounded like a local. He found a place in the swamp under a wide oak, carefully set Alice's hat box down and uncorked the wine bottle. He sighed, removing his hat and coat in the warm sunshine. He ate the bread and cheese slowly. The sun moved into the afternoon sky, changing the shadows around him.

Why did it bother him so? Grigg seemed to be settled enough. Mr. Avilov didn't miss Russia. Charles smirked. He wouldn't miss Russia, either. Thousands of people came to America and didn't look back. Why couldn't he stop looking? He ran his hand through his black hair, feeling the thick hair stand up.

If only he could hear her voice again. He swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat. "She's dead, Charles." His voice startled a nearby bird. It flew away, its red feathers contrasted against the yellow leaves. He held his hands over his eyes.

Mother was dead. She was dead and nothing would bring her back. Even if he returned to Downton, it wouldn't be the same. And if he went back, a part of him knew he would never leave again. That's why he wanted to see a bit more of the world. To see if there was another way.

He gently untied the ribbon around the box and lifted the lid. It was beautiful, the hat. Alice would love it. It was a deep plum color with soft grey feathers in the front. He could see it on her head, her laughing eyes.

He sat with the hat in his big hands, softly fingering the trim, before placing it gently on his coat. He uncorked the wine and drank the rest, savoring the taste on his tongue. Too sweet for his taste, but not bad. He laid down, watching wispy clouds sail by. The breeze rustled through the leaves.

Charles sat up in shock, the sun sinking in the horizon. It had to be after six. It was a good thing he wasn't in a hurry. He put the empty wine bottle back in the paper sack before reaching for the hat box. He vaguely remembered opening it. Putting the hat on his coat. His coat lay on the ground, nothing on top.

"Damn!" He jumped to his feet, looking around frantically. He sighed in relief, seeing the plum color tangled in some tall grass on the edge of the swamp. The bank was too steep for him to go that way. Charles stopped and groaned. His best suit! There was nothing else to be done - he couldn't leave it here. At least it was a thin section of swamp. He estimated from his present spot to where the reeds were was maybe fifteen feet across.

Leaving his shoes on the bank and rolling up his trouser legs, he waded in. At first, everything was fine. He was halfway across when he realized the mud was more solid than he realized. He sank deeper, the water and sludge up to his thighs as he swung his arms to propel himself forward. In horror, he stopped, then tried to move again. He could move his legs a little, but there was no moving forward - or any other direction, for that matter.

He closed his eyes. The hat lay barely five feet in front of him, out of reach. His shoes lay behind him on the opposite side.

He was stuck.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Turning the page, Elsie carefully wiped jam off of her finger as she swallowed the last bite of bread. She grinned. It would never do to get jam on Da's book. Especially one by Burns. Sacrilege!

She knew she should be leaving soon. The sunset was not far off. But maybe one more poem? It had been such a lovely and peaceful afternoon. She sighed, skimming down the page. "A Bottle And Friend" was a familiar one. She spoke the last verse out loud.

 _"Then catch the moments as they fly,_

 _And use them as ye ought, man:_

 _Believe me, happiness is shy,_

 _And comes not aye when sought, man."_

She closed the book with regret. Too true, about happiness. She hadn't been looking for it today, but it found her nonetheless. She put everything back in the basket, checking the ground. She didn't want to leave a mess. When she went to put the book in last, she noticed a tiny sheet of paper in one of the pages near the back. Da's handwriting was on it.

 _Read to Elsie, at Hogmanay*_

Which poem had he marked? "To Miss Logan, With Beattie's Poems," She read out loud. She started to read the first line when she heard a distant, but clear yell.

"Help!"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He didn't want to do it. He had tried over and over again to pull himself out, and only succeeded in sinking deeper. In desperation, he knew he had to call for help. He wasn't cold, but knew that would change. Especially after sunset. But who would hear him? He hadn't seen a single soul all afternoon.

"Help!" He shouted. He waited, but heard nothing. He put his hands around his mouth and bellowed at the top of his lungs.

"HELP!"

The cries of the birds seemed to mock him. He swore, feeling sweat trickle down his neck. He tried to lift his left foot again but with no success. Then he heard it. A voice.

"Where are you? Is someone there?"

Charles heart skipped a beat so fast it was almost painful. _Saved_.

"I'M OVER HERE!" He bellowed, waving his hands over his head. "By the oak tree!" He held his breath, hearing nothing. Then he saw someone move beside the tree under the yellow leaves. He had had to turn his head almost over his shoulder to be able to see, as he was stuck facing the other direction.

She pushed a branch aside and stood there for a moment on the opposite bank. Even from where he stood Charles could tell she was short. His heart plunged right down through his body. He couldn't stop the groan that escaped his lips.

"Are you hurt?" She moved to her left, and he didn't have to turn as far to see her.

"Not hurt. Disappointed." He blurted out.

"Oh?" She put her hands on her hips. He could see her eyebrows furred, her hat hanging from her neck. In the golden light of the sunset, he could see glints of red in her light brown hair.

"Well miss, I don't mean to be rude, but you aren't exactly what I was hoping for."

There was a silence that almost felt ominous.

"And who, may I ask, were you hoping for? I heard someone call for help, so here I am." There was an edge to her voice that wasn't there a moment before. And a brogue he couldn't miss.

 _Shit. Scottish, too. Why, Lord?_ He tried to explain.

"I just mean I don't think you're strong enough to pull me out of here-"

"If _you_ were strong enough, you wouldn't have been yelling for help either! And who runs into a swamp?!" She was definitely angry now. "I should walk away and leave, since you're so _disappointed_ ," She spat out.

He could hardly blame her, yet he could feel his temper rising when she reminded him of his own folly.

"As if I would run in here for my health! Couldn't you at least be useful and go for help? Surely you know someone-"

"I can't believe you." She stomped to her right, forcing him to crane his neck painfully. "You call for help, then have the nerve to complain when I come running! Why _should_ I help you? A rude stranger? At least the man saved by the Samaritan had the decency to be grateful!"

He gulped. She had a point - not that he intended to tell her that. "I didn't mean to offend you." She snorted in annoyance. He ignored it and the rising panic he felt. "I just don't want you to get hurt, or fall in yourself." It was a weak excuse, and she saw right through it.

"No, I'm not going to go for help! By the time I would find someone and bring them back here, it would be dark. So unless you want to stay here all night, you're stuck with me." She huffed for a moment, but seemed to have decided to stay.

Charles sighed with exasperation. As much as he didn't want to admit it, she was right. Again. _Infuriating woman._ "So what do we do now?"

She moved up and down the bank. "Well, if you could turn this way, the bank's closer to you on this side."

He turned as far as he could.

"Good. Now, you'll have to fall forward, to reach as far as you can-"

"Fall _forward_?" Charles's voice rose almost to a shriek. "My trousers are already ruined! What if my shirt's ruined as well?"

She almost laughed, biting her bottom lip. "What if there's a falling star? What if you get eaten by a bear? You can get another shirt."

"Not if I can help it." He made up his mind all at once. A part of him thought of how improper this was. She was a woman, and a stranger. Oh well. He'd probably never see her again.

He pulled his shirt gingerly out of his trousers and up to his ribcage, well out of the mud. He had undone his collar, grateful that his hat and coat were safe under the tree.

"Can you put this next to my hat, please? And this?" He tossed his necktie and collar at her. She caught them and put them down while he began to undo the buttons. Her mouth fell open.

"You can _not_ be serious." She held her hands to her face. Even from his sideways glance, he could see her face turning crimson.

"I already told you, I won't get another shirt. Better to ruin only half of my best suit, rather than the whole." He pulled the shirt over his head and threw it at her. She caught it and placed it next to his other things. He turned further, his left shoulder pointed at the bank. She was still folding his shirt sleeves. He tried not to notice the curve of her hip, how her corset framed her waist, pushing up her-

She straightened up, and he looked away quickly. Neither one of them spoke for a moment. _Good Lord, man, get a grip on yourself._

"What did you want me to do? 'Fall forward', you said?"

"What?" She seemed to be lost in thought. "Um. Yes, yes, that's what I said." She bit her bottom lip again. Did she have any idea how distracting that was? He had to concentrate.

"All right, here we go." He said. He flopped forward, the mud and water cold against his chest. He reached for her hand, her outstretched fingers.

"Could you try and move a little closer?" She crouched down, leaning as far as she dared. He wiggled forward, wondering if a fish out of water felt like this. He crept forward, inch by inch, until he was nearly at the bank and felt sure that he could stand up a little. She caught his hands as he struggled to get his balance. He felt his cramped leg muscles straining at the effort. The least he could do was to keep her out of this mess.

"Now, there's no use in falling again." She said, keeping her balance on the bank. He was amazed at how strong her hands were. "Hold on until you feel steady."

He wrenched his feet out of the stubborn mud and scrambled onto the bank. Panting with exertion, he stood in front of her. Bright blue eyes looked into his. He squeezed his toes into the soft earth, feeling his body relax. Feeling her hands in his. Mud dripped from his torso and arms, but he couldn't resist rubbing his thumbs over her knuckles. Her fingers were entwined with his.

"I'm steady now." He said quietly. He wasn't quite ready to let go.

"Good." She murmured, not moving. A faint blush spread across her face as he leaned a little closer. Her pink lips were parted.

There was a crack above their heads. A squirrel jumped from a branch on the oak to the ground. She dropped her hands.

"Oh dear, you'll catch a chill." As she spoke, there was a gust of wind and he shivered, feeling goosebumps erupt all over him. She ran to a basket and pulled out a blanket. He took it gratefully, wrapping it around himself.

"I honestly did not feel cold until now." He wiped off as much of the mud as possible. She handed him his shirt. Pulling it on, he buttoned it back up. She handed him his collar and necktie before taking the blanket back. "Thank you for that," He said, unsure of what to say. "Thank you for helping me. I know you didn't have to stay." She looked back at him, her expression unreadable. He swallowed. "And-I'm sorry. For being rude."

A smile bloomed across her face, the orange light of the sunset emblazing everything with its glow. "I accept your apology. There. It wasn't _that_ hard, was it?"

He opened his mouth to retort when he saw the twinkle in her eye. She was _teasing_ him. She handed him his hat. "Wait a moment. You have mud on your forehead." Before he could think, he was bending over so she could reach. She ran her fingers across his hairline, then smoothed some of the wilder hair down. He felt a different kind of shiver as her fingers grazed his temple. She stepped back quickly, clearing her throat as he put his hat on. "Why were you in the swamp, may I ask?" She pulled a stray hair over her ear.

His eyes widened. He had completely forgotten about it. "Alice's hat! Damn! It's-"

"I see it. You put on your shoes, I'll get it." He pulled his socks and shoes on, feeling the cold mud all over his trousers. She scrambled onto the opposite bank, somehow balanced on her heels, then plucked the hat from the reeds. He got to his feet as she handed it to him.

"It's clean. No mud or water on it. None that I could see, anyway."

"Thank you." He put it back in the box, thinking of how feeble the words sounded. "I really cannot thank you enough."

She laughed quietly. "You're welcome. I'm glad I was nearby to help. Even if you were rude, no one deserves to spend the night in a cold swamp." Her eyes danced with amusement before her smile faded. "You had better go on, give that pretty hat to your lady friend." The corner of her mouth turned down as she gave him her hand.

He meant to shake it.

Instead, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. It tasted of sunshine and strawberry jam. She let out a shaky breath.

"I have to go. It's late, Mam will worry." Before he could say anything else, she picked up her basket and walked quickly away. He followed at a distance out of the swamp, standing again on Oakland Avenue. She crossed it, turned down another street, and vanished.

 **Does anyone else feel warm in here? Just me? Okay.**

 ***At this time, St. Louis was one of the four biggest cities in the United States, behind New York, Philadelphia and Chicago.**

 ***Hogmanay is a Scottish festival, celebrated around New Year's Day.**


	8. Mooning Over A Mirage

**Wow, it's been a wild month. I had a long trip to see my new nephew, followed by a week of a horrible sinus infection, followed by Mr. Meetme and I buying a house. I'm going to try to post a few chapters this week before we move. Sorry for the delay. Also, I'm going back to the previous chapter to fix the breaks in between POV; something happened and it all ran together.**

 _St. Louis, November, 1882_

Peering into the small looking-glass, Elsie slipped the last pin into her hair. "Well, if nothing else, at least it's tidy."

"You look very pretty, _mo nighean_."* Da closed his book and laid it on the desk. He gently picked Becky up from his lap and set her on the bed. "And it's well past time for you to be in bed, _mo nighean donn_."

"Song, Da! Song!" Becky's face screwed up as she began to wail. Elsie bit her lip and tried not to laugh as she pinned her hat on. Da groaned.

"Now I know why your mother said _I_ could put you to bed. I already sang you two songs! And read you a story!" He kissed the top of Becky's head and caressed it, trying to get her to stop crying.

Elsie got up from the chair. "I'll tend to her before Mam hears. There's no reason for her to be angry with both her daughters tonight." She quickly sat on the bed and gathered Becky into her arms. Da nodded, going out the door. Before he closed it, he poked his head back in.

"Your mam's not angry with you," He whispered. "There's a lot of the country girl still in her. When she was your age and where we grew up, respectable people didn't go to the theater. She forgets that the world has changed."

"I know." Elsie sighed. Da gave her a grin and a wink, then shut the door behind him. Becky buried her face in her sister's neck. "Becky, love, you need to lay down and go to sleep."

"Song, Sissy!" Becky chirped, reaching up and patting Elsie's cheek. Laughing, Elsie laid her down, kissing her forehead.

"What song do you want?" Elsie knew which one, but it was always fun to ask.

"Lo-lo."

"What! That one again!" Elsie pretended to be surprised but didn't hide her smile. "Well, all right. But what do you say?"

"Peeeees."

Humming, Elsie touched Becky's nose and smoothed her hair. Her sister yawned, closing her eyes.

 _"O ye'll take the high road, and I'll take the low road,_

 _And I'll be in Scotland afore ye,_

 _But me and my true love will never meet again..."_

She trailed off as Becky started to snore. Silently, she rose from the bed and tucked the quilt in before leaving the room on her tiptoes so the floor wouldn't creak. Da opened the front door as she pulled on her coat.

"Have a lovely time, lass." He quickly gave her a kiss on the cheek. Elsie ignored Mam's disapproving shake of the head behind him.

"Thank you, Da. We won't be too late." She shut the door behind him and bounded down the porch steps. Immediately, Pen and Beryl linked their arms through hers, practically marching her down the sidewalk. Vasili and Aleksander (always called Sandy) followed behind them.

"We're not going to be late! You can slow down." Elsie laughed. "I had to sing Becky a song before she went to sleep. Sorry if I kept you waiting."

Pen loosened her grip. "We weren't waiting long." She looked back at her brothers. "Beryl and I just wanted to talk to you. Alone."

"About the _swamp-man_." Beryl whispered theatrically, trying not to laugh. "We don't think it's right for you to be pining after a stranger, maybe you did dream it all-"

Elsie groaned and stopped on the sidewalk. "Not this _again_. No, I didn't dream it, and no, I'm not pining for anyone!" She glared at Beryl, who glared back.

"We know you wouldn't lie about it, Els." Pen said as they pulled her across Oakland Avenue, their breaths puffing in the cold air. "But-and you'll excuse me for speaking my mind-if what you've been doing for the last month ISN'T pining, then I'm Beryl's mother."

"Which she most certainly is not, thank heaven! You've been mooning over a mirage," Beryl said, shaking her head. "I'm certain he's real, and I'm also certain that he has a sweetheart." She raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you say he'd lost a lady's hat? That's how he got stuck in the swamp?"

"Yes, that's what he said." Elsie gritted her teeth. "I also said that he was very rude, especially for someone who had no right to be!" Anger welled in her, anger at what he said. _You aren't exactly what I was hoping for_. _Why can't you be useful and go for help?_ She should have left him there! Another part of her wondered, not for the first time, why a stranger bothered her so much. _I cannot thank you enough._ He hadn't been entirely rude.

Pen squeezed her arm gently. "All we're saying is that you need to forget about him, whoever he is. He hasn't been seen since, and it sounds like he's courting another young lady as well." She smiled, her dimples visible. "If you want to walk out with a young man, I'm sure we could help you find one. Outside of Skinker Swamp, that is."

"Thank you for your help, but I don't think a young man is what I need right now." Beryl laughed at that, nodding. She then began teasing Pen about the latest new customer at the shop. The two bantered back and forth while Elsie felt her mind drifting again.

It wasn't that the stranger had been rude. Or even that he had been entirely improper. Taking his shirt off in front of her...Elsie was glad the air had reddened her cheeks already. Perhaps it all would have been easier if he'd been an old, ugly man, not a young one with strong arms and a broad chest covered with curly black hair. She bit her lip. It would not do to think of such things. She had no right. Nor did she like to think of herself as shallow.

No, if she were honest, what made her angry was the memory of that purple hat. She knew Pen and Beryl were right. Even if she saw him again (which she wouldn't), there was another lady in his life. Elsie was under no delusions - the cut and color of that hat were too dashing for her to think that the man had bought it for his mother. He had mentioned a name, but for the life of her, she couldn't remember it. Amy? Eleanor?

It made her angry to think that he had behaved the way he did, while he had someone else. Why did he kiss her hand? He had no right to do _that_. She should have slapped him for it. She was angry with herself for thinking of the way his soft lips felt on her bare skin, that delirious, delicious, terrifying moment when she thought he would kiss her under the oak tree.

Mam didn't approve of her going to the theater. She would have a stroke if she knew what Elsie had been thinking about over the last few weeks. It was just as well she and Da knew nothing about it.

Besides those memories of the young man that made her heart beat fast and her stomach flutter, there were other things that she kept thinking of. His accent. Yorkshire, but with a definite upper-class tilt to it. In some ways, he'd reminded her of Mr. Tolliver, the butler. His bearing, for one thing. Not many men she knew had such good posture. And the way he'd shrieked about his shirt! A more fastidious man she'd never seen.

He never did say he was wrong to run into the swamp. Even when he was stuck nearly waist-deep in the mud, pompously asking for her to get help elsewhere. There was something of a little boy about him. A little boy in a man's body. Lost.

She had told him to keep hold of her hands until he felt steady on his feet. Why hadn't she let go? _He_ was the one struggling in the mud, who needed a steady hand. He needed something to hold on to.

So did she.

Deep down, what Elsie had felt that day was something she didn't like to admit. That perhaps she was lost as well. Even at Winthrop House where she had worked so hard, there was a nagging feeling that it wasn't where she was supposed to be. And that feeling hadn't gone away when they came to America. But something had happened that day at Skinker Swamp.

She had reached out to steady someone else, and for the first time in a long time, felt steady herself. She was meant to be there. She felt it in her bones.

And ever since that day, that nagging feeling of feeling lost had only intensified.

"We're here! Let's get inside, I'm frozen." Beryl's voice startled her. "Where are we sitting, Pen?"

"High up, in the back." Pen said, as they joined the crowd going in. Elsie was jostled from behind after they had given the usher their tickets, still feeling disoriented. Sandy caught her arm and helped her regain her balance. They made their way upstairs and crowded into one of the last rows.

"Whew!" Beryl wiped her face with her handkerchief. "There's hardly room to breathe in here."

"Shhhhh." Elsie tried to shush her, looking around with interest. She was glad of the distraction. The walls were a bright red, with gold lining that glimmered in the dim light. The big room hummed with anticipation. To her surprise, she saw Helen and Carl Schwartzmann sitting only two rows in front of them. She tapped Pen and they both waved. Elsie started to ask a question, but Beryl poked her in the side.

"Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" She mimicked. "It's about to start!" Elsie tried to glare at her, but laughed instead.

The curtain came up and a brown-haired woman wearing a dark green dress stepped out onto the stage. The orchestra began to play and the soloist sang an aria. Italian opera, whispered Pen. Elsie didn't much care for the music. Or maybe it was the singer. She certainly sang well, her voice rising and falling, the theater hushed. She seemed to enjoy the applause just a little too much, perhaps.

Following the soloist came a family, a father, mother and their little daughter, performing in a short play. The children in the audience screamed with laughter every time the father fell down, which happened a lot.

"What do you make of that?" Beryl asked during the applause. "I mean, a family together on stage like that?"

"I suppose it's not much different than your family owning a bakery," Elsie said, clapping as the next act was announced.

"The Cheerful Charlies, all the way from London!" A black-haired man announced grandly, bowing and running off stage as the curtain came up once more. Two men, one tall and one short began a skit. The shorter man's Cockney contrasted with the posh accent of his friend. A rather booming voice, with a hint of Yorkshire.

Elsie's heart skipped a beat so fast it was painful. It _couldn't_ be him.

Even from this distance, in the back of the theater, there was no mistaking that voice. That posture. His black hair, with that errant curl on his forehead, stark under the bright lights.

It was the stranger from the swamp.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 ***My lass; my brown-haired lass. I speak no Scottish Gaelic, all hail Outlander wiki.**


	9. Facing Reality

**A/N: Continuing with Elsie's POV. I do really crave reviews, if you have time. Let me know if I've gone completely off of the rails here.**

 _St. Louis, November 1882_

ooooooooooooooooooooo

 _Even from this distance, in the back of the theater, there was no mistaking that voice. That posture. His black hair, with that errant curl on his forehead, stark under the bright lights._

 _It was the stranger from the swamp._

ooooooooooooooooooooo

She couldn't take her eyes off of him.

He looked so different here. Confident, energetic, humorous. The audience laughed at every line he was the real man, the one in front of her on the stage or the one she'd met outside on a beautiful autumn day?

His eyebrows were bushier than she remembered. He towered over his companion, and his voice reached easily into every corner of the theater. Elsie was reminded again of Mr. Tolliver, whose voice rang throughout Winthrop House. The man on stage, strangely, was dressed something like a butler, with a long black coat and tails. She tried to pay attention to the skit, but couldn't concentrate. She sat still as her mind whirled ceaslessly. When the audience roared with laughter as the curtain fell, she broke out of her reverie.

"Pen." She whispered, tugging on her friend's arm. "What's the name of the tall man? Is his name really Charlie?"

"Yes," Pen said quietly, looking curious. "That's Charlie Carson. His partner is Charlie Grigg."

 _Charlie. Charles Carson. His name is Mr. Carson._

"Are you all right?" Pen touched her hand. "You're white as a sheet." Beryl stopped clapping and turned on her other side.

"Surely you're not shocked over hearing a Cockney accent? My brother-in-law can imitate it quite well."

A laugh bubbled out of Elsie's mouth before she could stop it. It sounded loud in the sudden quiet as the next act, a brother and sister duo, came on. A woman sitting in front of them turned and glared at her.

Elsie clapped a hand over her mouth. She was laughing even as she felt tears coming. This was all too much. Impossible. She struggled for a few moments while her friends watched. When the orchestra joined the two violinists, she felt it was safe to answer.

"I'll be all right," She whispered shakily. "I've just had a shock - the swamp-man isn't a mirage. He's Charles Carson."

"THAT WAS HIM!? OH MY GOD!" Beryl bellowed, as Pen gasped. A chorus of "Shhhhhh!" erupted around them, and Sandy leaned over on Beryl's left.

"You all need to be quiet," He whispered. "They will throw you out if you make too much noise. Yes-" He nodded at Elsie's unspoken question. "Women too." In the aisle, a uniformed usher scowled in their direction.

Pen whispered against Elsie's right ear. "Papa's coming next. When he's finished, let's go to the lobby."

Elsie passed on the message to Beryl. The three of them sat through the rest of the violinists' act, then through Mr. Avilov's piano solo. The storm of applause that followed his performance was more than enough cover for them to exit into the almost empty lobby. A harried mother was attemping to keep her two boys from tearing each others' arms off. Other than the sounds of their fight, it was relatively quiet. Elsie shivered. It was colder here, close to the front doors.

"I'm sorry," she began. "I didn't mean to take you both away from the show."

"Never mind that!" Beryl interrupted. She seized Elsie's arm. "So the man you pulled out of Skinker was one of the Cheerful Charlies?"

"Yes, the tall one. Mr. Carson." She glanced at Pen for confirmation, who nodded.

"You're sure, Elsie?"

"Absolutely sure." There was no doubt. She hadn't been able to concentrate on any words he'd spoken, but the timbre of his voice had vibrated to her core.

"Well, I'll be jiggered." Beryl sank down on one of the steps leading from the auditorium. "He's been here for weeks! Pen's seen him, and I've seen him, and we never knew! We should have dragged you here weeks ago."

"Don't be vulgar, Beryl." Pen sighed and gave Elsie a piercing stare. "The question is - what are you going to do now?"

Elsie hesitated. "What do you mean? What is there to do?"

Pen rolled her eyes and held out her arms to Beryl. "Will you help me here, please?" Beryl got up from the stairs, rolled up her discarded program, and slapped Elsie on the head with it.

"Ow! What was that for!?" Elsie backed away from them, against the wall.

"Elspeth Caoimhe* Hughes, are you really that daft?" Pen laughed. "You've found him, I think you need to talk to him in a place where he's not dripping with mud."

"And when he's wearing all of his clothes," Beryl chimed in, grinning. "Unless you'd rather he be undressed..."

"Oh, hush." Elsie pinched her nose. "I can't believe the pair of you! First you say 'forget him', now you want me to meet him here? Have you forgotten that he has a sweetheart? Well, I have not!" She sighed heavily. "I doubt he even remembers me. I hardly made a good first impression."

Both Beryl and Pen started talking at once.

"We said 'forget him' when we thought he'd never appear-"

"From what Papa tells me, I don't think he has a sweetheart-"

"What do you mean, 'he doesn't have a sweetheart'? How do you know? Then why did he have the hat?" Elsie asked. "He doesn't have a sister, does he?" She could scarcely believe it.

"No. And he isn't married, that much I know for sure." Pen said carefully. "But from what Papa has said, it seems that Mr. Carson fancies someone, but it isn't a formal courtship."

"How does he know that?" Elsie was surprised.

"Mrs. Cohan told him." Pen lowered her voice as the audience began to stream into the lobby. "Papa's not at the theater as often as the regulars, and his Russian keeps him from knowing them as well as he'd like to. The Cohans and the brother and sister duo, Jamie and Josephine, have been the friendliest to him. Sandy has gotten to know some of them as well."

Beryl moved over next to Elsie by the wall as the crowd grew. Some people were leaving the theater, but many more were staying. Performers arrived from the opposite door, acknowledging the applause. Vasili walked with his father as the older man shook hands. Elsie caught a glimpse of Mr. Grigg and the violinists. The brother was talking animatedly to Sandy as the two beat a path through the wall of people.

"Jamie-Mr. Carter, I mean- you know my sister, Penelope. These are her friends, Miss Beryl Robinson and Miss Elsie Hughes. This is a friend of mine, James Carter."

Jamie gave a short bow, shaking their hands in turn. "Pen, it's good to see you again! Ladies, I hope you all enjoyed the show."

"We did, Mr. Carter, very much." Elsie said. She couldn't help but look around in the crowd. Her attention was caught again by the conversation.

"Please call me Jamie." He waved his hand. "Hardly anyone here is known by their last names, except the Cheerful Charlies, and that's only because they have the same first name. Mr. Charlie Carson would probably prefer if we all were Mister and Miss, but I think he's the only one."

"Oh?" _That's interesting, considering his profession._ "Surely it's a sign of respect for his fellow man for him to act in such a way. I wouldn't call formality a detriment to his character, Mr. Carter. Would you?" Elsie spoke before she realized it. Jamie scratched his hairline, his hair flat against his head.

"Not at all. It's just that as a rule, we're not that formal in the theater. Sometimes on stage, but hardly ever off. Except our Charlie C. He's a very proper sort. " He doffed his hat to her, grinning. "I should introduce him to you, Elsie, or Miss Hughes, if you prefer it. I think he'd appreciate hearing a similar frame of mind, especially one coming from his homeland of Great Britain."

Elsie blushed. Jamie couldn't possibly know that an introduction was unnecessary. She doubted Mr. Carson's actions in Skinker Swamp would count as _proper_.

Even so, she couldn't think of him as Charlie. At all.

"Speaking of introductions, I'd like to introduce myself. Mr. Charles Grigg." A man with light brown hair and a matching mustache swaggered into their circle, his eyes firmly on Pen. Elsie's mouth dropped open at his impertinence. Pen smiled at him, but it didn't reach her eyes. She held out her hand stiffly.

"Miss Penelope Avilov, Mr. Grigg." She drew herself up to her full height, making her almost a full head taller. Sandy gave him an icy glare as he tentatively shook Pen's hand.

Grigg coughed to cover up the awkward moment. "Well, it's quite a privilege to meet you, Penelope. I've yet to see anyone prettier since I've been in America."

"What are we, lumps of coal?" Beryl hissed under her breath. Elsie nudged her with her elbow. Turning aside from the group, Mr. Carter gestured at two figures across the room - one, a woman in a dark green dress. The other was Mr. Carson.

Elsie immediately stiffened. Surely he wouldn't remember her. _I must be calm._

From up close, the soprano was breathtaking. Two dimples lit her face as she enthusiastically shook Sandy's hand."Tell your father he was marvelous! Stupendous! Normally, I would be jealous of a fellow musician, but he is a true talent!" She laughed merrily. Elsie thought her flat American accent sounded rather grating when spoken, as opposed to in song. But the sound of her voice was not nearly as distressing as the sight of her hand tucked in Mr. Carson's arm.

Or the familiar plum-colored hat perched on her perfectly coiffed head.

Elsie felt a burning sensation behind her eyes. She swallowed, looking at the floor.

Sandy thanked her, then introduced Pen to the woman and to Mr. Carson.

 _Mr. Carson bought that hat for her. He fancies_ _ **her**_ _. Alice Neal. Not you._

"It is a pleasure meeting you, Miss Avilov. Your brother Aleksander tells me that you play the piano quite well yourself." Mr. Carson smiled at Pen, seemingly oblivious both to the frozen smile on his companion's face as well as the jealous look on Grigg's red face. Up close, Elsie could see the dimple on his chin.

Pen blushed. "Not nearly as well as Papa. Sandy's too kind."

"Charlie, Alice-" Jamie stepped forward. "These are Pen's friends, Miss Beryl Robinson and Miss Elsie Hughes. Elsie was just telling me, Charlie, that formality is a quality to be desired."

"Indeed? It is good to know that someone shares the same views." He turned to Elsie, who simultaneously wanted to say something wise while also disappearing through the floor at the same time. His expression never changed from one of curiosity. Elsie's heart sank. He didn't remember.

Alice laughed again, squeezing Mr. Carson's arm. "Well, Charlie, you always said you weren't the only one! Tell me, Elsie, where did your love of formality come from?"

Elsie shrugged. She swallowed, willing herself to speak clearly. "I suppose it was the way I was brought up, Miss Neal. When I went into service, it became a way of life." As she spoke, she noticed out of the corner of her eye Mr. Carson's eyebrows furrow, then shoot up in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak but closed it at the last moment. A flush was visible on his neck.

"You were in service? Where?" Alice pursed her lips. An expression Elsie couldn't place flashed across her face.

"Elsie's from Scotland, Miss Neal. I mean - Alice," Beryl said. She seemed to be uncomfortable using her first name.

"Scotland! Well," Alice glanced at Mr. Carson. "You've been singing the praises of that place over the last few weeks, haven't you? Bought that book of poetry by Robert Barnes-"

"I'm sure you mean Robert _Burns_." Elsie kept her voice level but her heart beating fast. Mr. Carson had been talking about Scotland? What did that mean? And why was he standing there like a bump on a log, saying nothing?

"Burns, yes, of course, Elsie. That's it." Alice smiled, but there was no warmth in it. Elsie turned to the man between them.

"It's the mark of a well-read man, Mr. Carson, to read Bobby Burns. How do you like him? Have you read any Coleridge, by chance? A fine English poet, that."

Mr. Carson's face went red, then white. "He-he's very unique, Miss Hughes. Er, Coleridge. No," he stuttered, "No-I haven't. I-" He closed his mouth, his eyes darting everywhere. Elsie bit her lip to keep from laughing. He looked as flustered as she felt.

"Well, I don't know any of these poets you're talking about," trilled Alice. "But I am glad that Charlie had good taste when he bought my hat." She patted the grey feathers. "It was a lovely birthday present. It meant so much to me that you ran into that dirty swamp to get it! Imagine, buying a hat, only to watch the wind carry it away. He struggled for almost half an hour to get out of that muck! And when he gave it to me, there wasn't a spot on it. Isn't that sweet?" She gazed at Mr. Carson, who tried to smile back but grimaced instead.

A cold feeling, like an icy finger on her spine, made Elsie shudder. So he was thankful in person, but neglected to tell the truth to his friends! Was this really the man she'd been thinking about for days on end? The iciness was rapidly being replaced by heat. _How_ _ **dare**_ _he. And I've been a fool._

"Sweet is one word for it," Beryl said, her hands on her hips, her eyes narrowed. "And a lie is another. Lucky for him Elsie heard him calling for help and came running when he got stuck!"

Every person turned in her direction on cue as if they were on stage.

Pen closed her eyes in horror. Jamie and Sandy said "What!?" at the same time. Next to Mr. Carson, the blood had drained from Alice's face.

"What's this?" Grigg asked, slapping his partner on the back. "You never told me you called for help. You said you got out of the mud yourself!"

"It's not true. Is it, Charlie?" Alice whispered. Elsie felt a tiny amount of pity for her. Mr. Carson's round face was red.

"I-I didn't lie, if that's what you're saying." He said to Grigg in a growl. "I said that after some difficulty, I made it out of the swamp. I simply left out the part that-that someone else was there!"

"So in other words, you lied." The words came out harsher than what Elsie intended, but at that moment she was too angry to care. He looked as if she had slapped him. "Miss Neal, did Mr. Carson tell you that _I_ was the one to fish your hat out of the reeds?"

"No, he didn't. Is there anything else you haven't told me, Charlie?" The color was rising in Alice's face. Her blue-green eyes held fire in them. Mr. Carson looked at Elsie in desperation. She knew what he was thinking. It was on the tip of her tongue to mention him undressing in the mud. He shook his head, silently begging her not to.

 _Och, you proud, frustrating, daft man. You've really gotten stuck, haven't you?_ For some reason, she didn't have the heart to punish him anymore. Even though he deserved it. Her anger seeped away, like a fever.

"No, that's all." She said to Alice. "That's _all_ ," she repeated, looking in Beryl's direction. Her friend pursed her lips, but kept quiet.

"Yes," Mr. Carson agreed quietly, "I-I didn't get out on my own. I told a falsehood, I am sorry. I was ashamed to admit my own folly." He gestured to Elsie. "Miss Hughes here was nearby and helped me out of a very difficult situation." He sighed, looking utterly defeated. He ran his hand through his hair. The black curl was prominent against his forehead. "You probably regret helping me, after the way I've treated you. I wouldn't blame you." He blinked, his dark eyes filled with sadness.

"I don't regret it, Mr. Carson. And it costs me nothing to say it." _But I am glad I have nothing else to regret._ She steeled herself against a sudden rush of emotion.

His eyes softened at her words and his shoulders dropped as he relaxed. She could almost feel Alice's stare boring a hole in the side of her head. Reluctantly, she turned and stared back. A tiny smile hinted on the American woman's lips.

Vasili gestured impatiently by the door. Pen and Sandy hurried towards the door, murmuring goodbyes, with Beryl and Elsie in their wake.

It felt like she'd been standing on the deck of a ship, holding onto the rail, only to have it disappear beneath her hands. Over the past weeks, she'd imagined someone who, it seemed, didn't exist. She had met the real Charles Carson, and didn't like what she saw.

No more illusions. From now on, Elsie vowed, she would face reality.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 ***Caoimhe - Pronounced "KWEE-vuh". Derived from the Gaelic meaning "beautiful", "gentle" or "precious". It comes from the same root as the name Kevin. :)**


	10. Tea At Philpotts' Bakery

**A/N: Sorry about the delay. Mr. Meetme and I moved from our apartment to our first house. As soon as I found my computer, I started writing again. :) Another long chapter, but there's a long conversation between Charles and Elsie that needed to happen. I do not own Downton Abbey.**

 _St. Louis, December 1882_

 _What a bloody mess._

Charles sat at the tiny desk in his room at the boardinghouse. Several crumpled sheets lay on the floor. He could hear voices in the hall, the pounding of feet going up and down stairs. Someone, from the sound of it Cecilia Edwards, dropped a hatbox right outside his door. He sighed.

The right words were out of reach. What could he say that she would believe? He could stand almost anything, but the knowledge that she thought him to be a liar had tortured him since they met at the theater. His mother and grandfather had taught him to value his integrity over all else. He might have been poor, but no one could ever doubt his honesty. Until now. _Well, if anyone **knew** how dishonest you could be..._

Swallowing a lump in his throat, he was almost glad Mother was dead. She didn't know what a coward he'd become. Letting his pride overcome his scruples.

He was startled by a loud knock. Jamie poked his head inside. "I'm going down to Tamm Avenue...thought I'd say farewell to Mr. Avilov. Do you need anything? I don't suppose you want to come." He leaned in the doorway, pulling his scarf around his neck.

"I will come with you. I need some fresh air." Charles reached for his coat and hat. It would be a risk, going that way, but he told himself it would be polite to say goodbye before they went back to New York. And if he ran into Elsie Hughes along the way, maybe the right words would come.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

They closed the front door quickly behind them, so as not to let too much cold air linger. Snow had melted and had then refrozen on the porch. Charles nearly slipped on the stairs, catching Jamie's arm.

"Whoa there, Charlie! Don't drop that bottle! I'm surprised Peter gave that to us - Russian vodka is a rare thing here."

"I wouldn't dream of dropping it," Charles tightened his grip. "We'll have to toast Mr. Avilov's health, perhaps at the New Year."

Jamie shivered, his breath puffing out. "Definitely not now. I could do with something warm, couldn't you?"

"I certainly could." Charles kept his sight trained on the ground. On a cold day like this nothing would be better than a hot cup of tea. A surge of homesickness like he hadn't felt in months engulfed him. At Downton, on a cold winter's day, tea-time was a joy. The cook Mrs. Stevenson made scones, steam pouring out of one when he bit into it...

He blinked, and for a moment thought he'd walked into a dream. The scent of baking bread and a thousand other delights smacked him in the face. Jamie opened the door, and Charles thought he would faint. A man in a white apron stood behind the counter inside. "Come inside, gentlemen, don't let all the warm air out!" _A Yorkshire accent. I_ _ **must**_ _be dreaming._

They hurried in after stamping their feet to get the snow off. Charles removed his hat. He almost dropped Mr. Avilov's vodka at the sight in front of him. Scones. He swallowed to keep himself from drooling like a dog.

"Would either of you like a cup of tea? You both look half-frozen." The man poured some from a silver teapot into a cup on a little table next to the counter.

"Yes, please," Charles managed to croak. "One sugar, a little milk."

"Here you are," The man handed him the cup. "And that's on me. It's a rare thing to hear a Yorkshire accent. I'm Ronald Philpotts."

Sipping the hot liquid quickly, Charles set the cup down. He relished the feeling of warmth flowing through his chest. "Charles Carson. Thank you, Mr. Philpotts. That's just what I needed."

"What about you, sir? Tea? I have enough for one more cup." The baker held the teapot up.

"Er...if it's not too much trouble...you wouldn't happen to have coffee, would you? I don't drink tea," Jamie stuttered. Mr. Philpotts laughed.

"I'm sorry sir, but my wife, sister-in-law, and I are British and we enjoy our tea. So how about it? I'll put plenty of milk and sugar in for you," He poured the last of it, leaving the dregs in the pot. "It'll warm you up, I promise you. No charge, either."

"Thank you," Jamie didn't look convinced, but took a sip. From behind the kitchen door came a peal of female laughter.

"My Kate's having an early Christmas tea with some friends," the baker explained as he laid out fresh biscuits. "That's why I'm on duty now. They must be almost done, Miss Hughes said she needed to get home early-"

Charles was eternally grateful at that moment that he'd set the bottle of vodka down. His stomach flipped and his mouth went dry. He wished there was more tea.

" 'Miss Hughes'?" Jamie shot Charles a look. "You wouldn't happen to know Miss Avilov, would you, Mr. Philpotts?"

"Indeed I do," he wiped his hands on his apron. "She's back there as well. How do you gentlemen know them?"

Before he could get a response, the door swung open. Pen came through first, nearly bent over laughing. "And the bull chased her across the field and down the road? Beryl, that sounds _just_ like you-" She stopped abruptly at the sight of the two men. "Oh." Her eyes flickered from Jamie to Charles. " _Oh_." Behind her, Elsie and Beryl collided in the doorway. A woman with dark auburn hair put her hands on Beryl's shoulders.

"Don't just stand there blocking the door, girl." Beryl's face was beet red as she glared at Charles. He hardly noticed. A deep blush had spread across Elsie's face, but she wasn't looking away.

"It's later than I thought. Thank you for the lovely tea, Mrs. Philpotts," Pen said, pulling her gloves on. "I must be getting home." She nodded in Charles's direction, who nodded back.

"I'll escort you, if you like," Jamie said. "The sidewalks are quite slippery."

"Thank you, Mr. Carter. That's very kind of you. Good evening, Mr. Philpotts." She and Jamie left as the cold draft of the outside air settled over the room.

"Mr. Carter and I were just saying goodbye to Mr. Avilov," Charles explained quickly. "We were cold, so we came in here. I didn't realize this was your family's bakery, Miss Robinson."

"Yes, it is, Mr. Carson." The flame-haired young woman pinched her lips together, as if to keep from saying something rude. Her brother-in-law looked from her to Charles to his wife, silently asking for an explanation.

Mrs. Philpotts raised her eyebrows. "I hope you found everything to your satisfaction, Mr. Carson." She grabbed her sister's elbow and pulled her towards the kitchen. "Beryl, I need you to help me with the stove. Ron, could you come and have a look as well? Just for a moment."

"Yes, dear," Mr. Philpotts shook his head. He wrapped three scones in paper, then placed them in a small box. "Here you are, Mr. Carson. A little taste of England to take with you. No payment necessary, it's a Christmas gift." He followed the women into the back room.

Charles and Elsie were alone.

Internally, Charles cursed. Wasn't this the opportunity he was looking for? Then why couldn't he think of something- _anything_ -to say? If only she would stop looking at him. He fumbled for a moment, then saw the box on the counter.

"Mr. Philpotts is a very generous man. Especially to a stranger." He felt a trickle of sweat down his neck. Why _did_ she stare at him like that? Was his hair sticking up? He touched the top of his head. The pomade still worked. She stifled a laugh behind her hand.

"I don't see what's funny, Miss Hughes," he grumped. "The way you're looking, you make me want to check the looking glass to make sure my hair's tidy!"

If anything, her blush deepened. "I'm sorry to make you feel that way, Mr. Carson," she said, folding her hands primly in front of her. He had no idea she was sorely tempted to run her fingers through his hair, to _make_ it untidy. "You needn't worry. You look fine." There was another awkward silence. "I'm glad you had the chance to visit the Philpotts' bakery here, especially since you're leaving?" Her voice went up, like she was asking a question.

"Yes, we're going back to New York. The train leaves tonight," Charles swallowed. "You're probably glad to see the back of me. I am glad that I got the chance to see you before we left. Miss Hughes-"

"Mr. Carson, there's no need for you to apologize," she broke in. "You've said you're sorry, and I can't ask for any more." Her chin held firm, almost like she gritted her teeth. She suddenly found the silver teapot very interesting.

"But there IS more," Charles started. Perhaps it was wrong to be forward, but she had to know how their last meeting had affected him. "I know I apologized. You can't know how sorry I am for what happened. How I behaved. I lied, Miss Hughes, and I am ashamed of it. You helped me when I needed it most, and I repaid your kindness by telling a falsehood." His shoulders sagged. "You think of me as a liar, and perhaps that is the real truth. I've always presented myself as a man with integrity, but I've come to realize that I have no right to think of myself so highly."

Her interest was still on the teapot.

"There in the swamp, and later at the theater, you saw the real me-stubborn, obstinate, proud-" Her lips pursed in a half-smile-"rude, and reeking of cowardice. I'm a coward." He took a deep breath, his voice barely above a whisper. "You saw me the way I really am in the swamp, and it was too much for my pride. I didn't want to leave St. Louis knowing that you thought I had no honor. Is there any way...I can redeem myself?"

"Mr. Carson," she said, turning towards him. The way her brogue curved around his name made his heart skip. "There's no need to talk of...redemption." Her blue eyes met his. They matched almost exactly the dress she wore. "I should apologize to you as well, I was rude also. I'm sorry. It was not my place to call you out in front of your friends."

"Miss Robinson did that before you."

"Yes, well..." A smile spread across her face. "It was not _her_ place either. We all have said and done things we are ashamed of at one time or another. The best thing to do is to learn from it, and try not to make the same mistake over again." Her eyes twinkled. "So as long as you stay away from Skinker Swamp, I think you'll do very well. Let's have no more of this talk of cowardice, Mr. Carson. It takes a great deal of courage to express one's shortcomings."

Charles let out a breath he didn't know he held. "Thank you, Miss Hughes. And-" he felt the back of his neck grow warm-"thank you for not mentioning anything else about what happened in front of Miss Neal. I wouldn't want her thinking anything improper happened between us."

A flush of pink flooded her face. "Of course not. I'm not sure I would call undressing in front of a strange woman _proper_ , but I wouldn't want such a story getting too far. If I were Miss Neal, I would be suspicious enough of the rest of the story. No need to throw more wood on the fire."

Shifting his feet, Charles nodded. "She needs to be reassured often that those around her are telling her the truth. Her mother hardly knew the definition of the word, or so I've been told." He stopped. The things Alice told him in confidence did not need to go any further.

"Miss Neal has a lovely voice. It seems like she was born to sing." Elsie said quietly.

"She was," Charles said. "Singing is all she's ever wanted to do."

"What about you? Have you always been on stage?"

A laugh bubbled out of him. "No. Until five-almost six years ago, I was destined for a life in service."

Elsie's eyes widened. "Service? Truly? Where?"

"From the time I was a small boy, I lived at Downton Abbey. It's the home of the Earl of Grantham, in Yorkshire. I worked up to become the second footman." He smiled wistfully.

"No doubt you would have become the Butler eventually. You certainly have the voice for it." Elsie was surprised that this revelation did not surprise her. Somehow it made sense. The way he spoke and the way he carried himself. He shrugged.

"Maybe. I might go back one day. I needed to leave for awhile."

"You wanted to live a little?" She raised her eyebrows. "I understand that. I was in service myself, in Scotland."

"Head housemaid, no doubt." He grinned at her. "One day, the housekeeper. Trooping around downstairs, keys at your side, bossing around the maids..." She grinned back. For a moment, he pictured her downstairs at Downton, seated next to the Butler's chair. His chair.

"Not quite head housemaid. The housekeeper spoke well of me, as did the mistress of the house." There was a hint of pride in her voice. She bit her lip. "I don't know if I will go that way again. My family is here. I can't just leave them."

 _Not like me. I have no blood family TO leave. Just the Family. They're all I've got._

They were startled by Jamie opening the door. "It's not getting any warmer, I can tell you that. Are you ready, Charlie? We have to meet the others at the boardinghouse before going to the station."

Charles turned to Elsie. "Goodbye, Miss Hughes. I'm glad we had a chance to talk. I hope you and your family have a very Happy Christmas." He put his hat on, feeling a sense of loss.

"Happy Christmas to you, Mr. Carson." She rubbed her hands on her arms in the sudden chill. She hesitated, then blurted out, "Will you ever come back?"

"I don't know." He wished he had a different answer.

"Well." She held out her hand. He shook it quickly, trying not to think about the last time she held out her hand or how her fingers felt in his.

"Goodbye, Miss Hughes. Good luck to you."

"The same to you. Goodbye, Mr. Carson."

They let go of each other's hands. Outside on the sidewalk, he couldn't help but look one more time. Mr. Philpotts locked the door, and hung the "Closed" sign in the window. Elsie still stood inside the bakery, her face hidden by the lamp shining behind.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 **And they're separated. Again. I hope this isn't too frustrating. Please review if you have time - thank you!**


	11. Billy and Barney

_St. Louis, New Years' Eve, 1882_

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 _"Will you ever come back?"_

 _"I don't know."_

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was like a child to ask such a question! She had asked herself countless times why she dared ask in the first place. What did she think he would say? What if he had said 'no'? What then?

Mr. Carson had been in service once upon a time; so had she. That was in Great Britain, not America. He seemed to enjoy being on stage. To go back to New York had seemed to be a good thing in his eyes. He had nothing in common now with Elsie. Why did she care? It was his life. It didn't matter to her what he did with it. It _should_ not matter to her.

But it did. Heaven help her, it did.

She had said nothing of consequence to Pen or Beryl regarding her last conversation with Mr. Carson. Or to Mam or Da, who both blessedly remained unaware of the whole connection.

Elsie had gone home that night with her emotions swirling like the snow outside. He had sought her out, or at least was glad to have the chance to talk to her again. She had seen him relax after telling her his burden. He wanted her to know he was a man of integrity. At the same time, he declared himself unworthy, like a man talking to a priest.

 _You didn't have to confess your sins to me, Mr. Carson. I knew who you were from the first time we met. A scared, proud, obstinate man. A man who thinks one way, and goes the other._

She had cried herself to sleep that night. It felt, in some ways, like when they met at the theater. Standing at the rail of a ship, only without the rail. It didn't make sense to feel that way. Mr. Carson had made amends, and she had forgiven him. They had parted on good terms. He was gone. Nothing would change that.

But something had changed with her.

She knew that she had never felt this way before; the depth of her emotions frightened her. Elsie had never known before that her heart could physically ache. She didn't know what tormented her more - the fact that he was gone, that he cared for her at most as a friend, or that if he cared for anyone, it was Alice Neal.

It was impossible. At times she wondered if she was going mad.

She had whispered aloud to herself before dawn on Boxing Day, and knew it to be true.

 _I am in love with Charles Carson. I love_ _ **you**_ _, Mr. Carson._

"Elsie?"

She blinked, suddenly aware of the stillness, except for the crackling of the fire. Everyone in the room was focused on her. She turned to her father, who grinned.

"You're far away, lass. You've been asked to sing, if you like."

She stood up. "What should I sing?" She wondered how much of the conversation she'd missed.

Cousin Ailsa laughed. "Sing, 'Whistle And I'll Come To You'. There must be a lad on your mind, the way you were dreaming." She nudged Bridget with her elbow. "She reminds me of you, before you married Michael." She winked at her daughter fondly.

"If you do have someone in mind, Elsie, try not to show a preference," Bridget said, nodding to their guests. "Mr. Patmore and Mr. Mason have been friends since they were boys. It would be a shame for them to fight now!"

A hot blush swept across Elsie's face. Along with her family, Pen, Sandy and Beryl, Patrick and Ailsa had also invited their son-in-law Michael Gallagher's business partner Barnaby Patmore, and his best friend, William Mason, to celebrate Hogmanay. The youngest McNallys and Becky were already asleep upstairs.

Mr. Mason stifled a laugh behind his hand. "Now, Mrs. Gallagher, don't tease your cousin. Barney and I have never fought each other - not even over a pretty Scottish lass." His blue eyes twinkled. Smiling shyly, his younger friend flushed pink. Mr. Patmore's dark hair was slicked down with so much pomade it made his ears stick out even more.

"I know that song, if that's all right with you, Elsie," Pen said, turning pages of the music book on the piano. "That's another Robbie Burns poem, isn't it?"

"Aye," Da said. "It's not Burns Night*, but you'll not find many better songs."

Pen began to play, and Elsie joined in at the chorus:

 _O Whistle, an' I'll come to ye, my lad,_

 _O whistle, an' I'll come to ye, my lad,_

 _Tho' father an' mother an' a' should gae mad,_

 _O whistle, an' I'll come to ye, my lad._

She sang, perhaps a little louder than she normally would. Mam and Ailsa joined the chorus after the first verse. By the last chorus, all of the women were singing along, including Beryl. Elsie raised her eyebrows, knowing her friend had insisted earlier in the evening that she wouldn't sing at all.

After she acknowledged the applause, Elsie sat down on the ottoman. It was strange, being in a room full of people, yet totally alone in her thoughts. _It won't do any good to think of him now, girl._

"Would you like some wine?" Mr. Patmore held out a glass half-filled with a dark red.

"Very much, thank you," Elsie took it, glad of the distraction. She took a long sip. The young man stood awkwardly, as if waiting for her to say something. "Would you like to sit down?"

"Yes, thank you, Miss Hughes." He sat a respectable distance from her on the ottoman. "It's a Cabernet Sauvignon."

Elsie took another drink. "This is very good. Thank you for bringing it tonight." She grinned. "I suppose bringing it is an easy way to make friends quickly."

He nodded, showing a half-grin. "You could say that. I like to think of it also as a good business decision."

"Do you and Mr. Gallagher sell wine at the grocery?"

"We've just started selling it. I've made some contacts west of here. There are a lot of wineries in Hermann*." He gestured at his friend, who leaned against the upright piano. "Billy would never forgive me if we came to celebrate the New Year without it."

Elsie glanced at Mr. Mason. He had light-brown, wavy hair, and wore a trimmed mustache. Laughing with Pen, he turned a page of the music for her.

"How long have you known him?"

Mr. Patmore sighed, stroking his sleeve. "Hmm. Let's see. I was living in Leeds, and he'd come to make a delivery for his father from Thirsk. That'd be almost ten years ago."

Finishing her wine, Elsie set her glass down. "I thought I heard a bit of Yorkshire in your voice. Were you born there? In Leeds?"

"Yes." A slow smile made two dimples appear in his cheeks. He seemed to be relaxing, less formal than before. "My father worked on the railroad and Mum was a greengrocer's daughter."

"Oh, I see," Elsie said. "So you've continued in the family business, by owning the store with my cousins. Do your parents work there as well?"

His smile vanished. "No. They died of the smallpox, back in England. I was six."

Elsie's heart plunged to her shoes. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Patmore. I didn't mean-"

"It's all right. You didn't know." There was a long silence as they listened to Pen play "Sweet Afton".

The young man laughed suddenly. "Billy used to sing that song in a high voice to make me laugh. He was fourteen, and I was ten when we met. He was the first person to call me Barney." His voice softened. "He's like the brother I never had."

Da clapped his hands together, and the room quieted. "Patrick, it's almost time! Everyone, gather 'round the piano."

Mam slipped one arm around Elsie's waist. Da stood sideways between her and Michael. Elsie noticed with amusement that Beryl was trying to create some distance between her and Mr. Patmore. Everyone was so crammed together, though, that she failed. A giggle escaped Elsie's lips.

"Ready, Miss Avilov?" Patrick asked, his shoulder wedged against the parlor wall.

"Almost, Mr. McNally," Pen said. "I can't find the page-"

"It's on page thirty-six," Bridget's younger brother Sean yelled. "Mr. Mason, can you breathe over there?"

"I've seen worse, thanks." He chuckled. A line of sweat ran down his temple. Pen finally found the right page and everyone sang as the clock struck midnight.

 _Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind?_

 _Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne..._

As they began the last verse, everyone joined hands, crossing their arms from right to left. Pen got up from the piano and stood sideways between it and Billy Mason. On the other side of the room, Beryl was squashed between Mr. Patmore on her right, and Ailsa on her left. Barney was pink from forehead to chin, whether from heat or embarrassment, or both, Elsie couldn't tell. Beryl's face was almost as bright as her hair.

"If anyone wants to come with us, we're going next door to the O'Callahans. I'm going to be their first-footer*." Michael steered Bridget through the crowd. They stopped when someone knocked loudly on the front door.

"They may have beat you to it," joked Patrick as he raced to the hallway. "Mr. Philpotts! And your missus! What a surprise!"

The two presented gifts to their host, including a silver coin and an elaborate cake. Mr. Philpotts pretended to hang on to the bottle of whiskey before passing it over to Patrick.

"Did you know they were coming over?" Elsie asked Beryl. Her friend nodded.

"I did. They said they wanted a quiet evening in, but they've been looking forward to this for days. That butter cake is _divine_ , if I do say so myself."

"Which means you made it," Elsie shook her head. "Sweets are not my cup of tea, but I'll have to try it, for your sake." They headed for the kitchen.

"You should, before your cousins and their guests eat it all," Beryl gripped Elsie's wrist, her eyes unusually soft. "You know I like to give you a hard time about-about other men. It's nice to see you having a good time tonight."

Elsie swallowed, feeling unshed tears in the back of her eyes. It would be one thing, coming from Pen, but to hear it from Beryl was rare. "I am," she said, keeping her voice light. "Mr. Patmore and his friend are quite nice."

"Mr. Mason seems to like Pen," Beryl said quickly. Elsie knew that she wanted to keep any attention away from her. It wasn't going to work.

"And Barney Patmore seemed to like _you_ ," she teased, nudging her friend playfully. Beryl's face went scarlet again. Elsie laughed out loud. "Mrs. Patmore," she whispered under her breath. "It has a pleasant ring to it, don't you think?"

"So does _hanged-by-the-neck-until-you-are-dead_ ," Beryl hissed, her face a dark shade of puce. Elsie was about to respond when her father touched her shoulder.

"Elspeth, your mother and I need to speak with you." She turned in surprise. It was seldom that he used her full name. He gestured to the hallway, which was emptier than the parlor or the kitchen. Elsie called to Beryl's disappearing form.

"Can you please save me a piece of cake?" Her friend huffed a yes.

 ***Burns Night – Celebrated on January 25** **th** **, Robert Burns' birthday**

 ***Hermann, Missouri – A town west of St. Louis, founded by German immigrants. Famous for wineries.**

 ***"First-footer" – tradition during Hogmanay, a Scottish New Year celebration. The first person to cross the threshold of a neighbor after midnight brings gifts. They set the luck for the year. According to Wikipedia, "tall, dark men" are preferred over others.**


	12. Advice for Miss Logan

**A/N: If you haven't read the previous chapter, please do. These two go together. Thank you for sticking with this!**

 _St. Louis, New Year's Day, 1883_

"Oh my, it was warm with everyone in there." Mam sank into a chair facing the front door. She fanned her glowing face. "Did you tell Beryl to save us a piece of cake as well?"

"No, but she will. It's more likely she'll save one for you than for me." Elsie said. Da paged through a well-worn book in his hands.

"Why?" Mam asked. "Is she angry with you? She seemed to be a moment ago."

Elsie sighed, leaning against the chair. "I suppose it's my own fault. I was teasing her about Mr. Patmore."

Da looked up. "That made her upset? I would think she would joke with you instead." He shrugged.

"What did you want to speak with me about?" Elsie wondered what was going on.

Her parents exchanged a look. Mam sighed. "It's about Becky."

"Becky? Is she all right?"

"She's fine," Da said. He hesitated for a moment. "Elsie, we know you love her. It's one of our greatest joys that despite her condition, you still care for her. Not everyone would. There's been more than one family that have shunned one of their own for being…different."

Elsie's heart swelled. "I could never abandon her. She's my wee sister, I had to wait a long time for her," She wiped away a tear from her face. "I will always care for her. I'll do whatever I have to, to make sure she's cared for."

Her parents held hands. Mam wiped away a tear of her own. "My girl, you have a gentle heart. We are so proud of you, for the work you've done. We wanted to tell you how grateful we are, both for our sake, as well as for Becky." Mam bit her lip. "The truth is, I was so proud of you when you went into service. But I was afraid as well. The housekeeper wrote to me, telling me how happy the master and mistress were, and how well you were doing. When your Da sent for us, I was afraid you would stay in Scotland. That we'd never see you again." She looked up, her eyes watery. "You are a woman now, not a child. If you had decided to stay in service, I would have no right to demand that you come with us. I was being silly, wanting to hold onto you." Her voice cracked. "But I was glad – so, so glad that you _did_ come with us. Forgive me, for being selfish."

Elsie hugged her mother. "Of course I forgive you," she choked. "You are my mother – I should hope you would want me with you, no matter how old I am."

Da gently put an arm around her shoulders. "We would always prefer you to be with us, lass. But we would never ask you to sacrifice your own life to make us happy."

Swallowing another sob, Elsie turned to her father. "I haven't sacrificed anything." _Now is as good a time as any._ She took a deep breath and told them about Mrs. Donnelly's letter. Mam gasped when she heard the wages offered. "So you see," she concluded, "I can still write and ask for the position. The Schwartzmanns are very generous, but I can hardly expect to do better there, unless they sold me the store. I don't foresee that happening. If I returned to service, I could rise – perhaps be a housekeeper in a few years. I would make enough to pay for Becky to be cared for. Neither of you would have to worry about what happens later. I wouldn't be able to care for her myself, but she would be happy. And as long as she is happy, then I will be, too."

"You have thought about this for a long time." Da said. His expression was inscrutable. "But Elsie, I think you are getting ahead of yourself a little. Mam and I are still here." He quirked a small smile. "And both of us intend to live for a good long time yet." His eyes softened. "You shouldn't be worrying about what 'happens later', as you say."

She opened her mouth to argue, but was stopped by Mam's quiet voice. "Sacrifice can mean more than the work you do. What about your friends? Would you be happy to go back into service and leave them?" She squeezed Elsie's hand. "You have never had such good friends before."

Elsie closed her eyes. It was true. A painful throb thumped in her chest as she remembered Mrs. Donnelly's words. _A housekeeper does not have the liberty of making friends with those beneath her._ A life in service would be isolating. As a housemaid, she was concerned primarily with her work. When, and she had no doubt it would be when, she became Housekeeper, any real friendships would be scarce, if not impossible.

Six months ago, she would have been fine with that life. But now…

They told her not to worry about Becky. About what would happen after they were gone. How could she not? It was foolish to think someone else would care for her sister as much as she did. _Pen and Beryl do._ _Yes, but they won't be able to take care of her themselves, or to pay to have her cared for._

She did not want to think about Charles Carson at all.

"I would miss them," she whispered. "But what choice do I have?" She looked up, almost fierce. "Becky comes first. She has to."

"Love, were you listening earlier?" Da traced his thumb down her cheek. "Mam and I don't want you to sacrifice your own happiness out of an obligation. And that won't change, even after we are gone." He exchanged another look with his wife. "You are right to care for your sister. But we care about _both_ of you."

"It's not just your friends," Mam took a deep breath. "Who knows, if you meet a young man-"

Elsie's heart sank. "Mother. Do you really think someone would want to take me on? Most men would see Becky as a burden at best, a black mark at worst. I couldn't love someone who would want to send my only sister to an asylum and forget about her!"

"Speaking on behalf of men, I think you are being rather harsh." Da remarked drily. "There are good men out there. Unless, of course, you have made up your mind to never love someone." He paused. "We would never force you to, lass."

"I only mentioned it before because most people do find love and marry," Mam said quickly. "Do you-have you decided that you will never will? Has there ever been someone you thought you could love?"

They had never asked before. But then, when had there been an opportunity to meet someone? Not on the farm, not in service. But something in Mam's expression gave her away. _They know._

Elsie's face went white, then red. _Should I lie?_ She heard, as if hearing someone else speak, her own voice whisper. "There was. Once. But it's impossible." She kept her eyes trained on the floor.

It was quiet for so long that she began to listen to the music from the parlor, the merriness emanating from the kitchen. So close, yet so far away. Da broke the silence.

"We should have asked you earlier about him."

"Why?" Elsie looked up quickly. "It doesn't matter now. He's gone from St. Louis, and likely won't come back."

"We waited for you to say something, we didn't want to press you," Mam explained. She got up from the chair and put her arms around her daughter, rubbing her back. "I _knew_ I should have said something, Ewan, back in October."

"You should not blame yourself," Da said. "I am as much at fault. We both noticed our girl walking as if in a dream all during the autumn, then coming home barely a fortnight ago, clearly broken-hearted."

Elsie moved out of Mam's embrace and held her hands over her eyes. "You knew all that time? Och, I thought…" She trailed off, feeling guilty for upsetting them. Humiliation crept back. _You hid your feelings for nothing._

"You thought we would not notice?" Mam asked, frowning. "Not many people would. Well, Ailsa suspected something, as you heard earlier. You hide your emotions well."

"Not well enough." Da pulled at his thinning reddish-brown hair. "And do not look me in the face, Elspeth Caoimhe Hughes, and tell me that this man matters nothing to you, because it is clear to me that he matters a great deal. Whether he returns or not."

Her chin quivered as she struggled to hold back her emotions. _Don't cry_ _ **now**_ _. You have to be strong._

It was no use. A sob rose from her throat. She let the tears flow freely, feeling the damp against Da's shirt. He held her like she was a little girl again. He used to comfort her if she woke from nightmares, but this was different. There was no waking from reality.

"There, now. If you keep this up, I'm going to go after that young man and give him what for!" Da dried her face with his handkerchief. His voice was light, and Elsie knew he was trying to make her feel better. She managed a small smile. "Don't worry, lass. If you like, I'll do the same to Mr. Mason and Mr. Patmore."

She and Mam both laughed out loud, leaning against the wall.

Da opened the book he had been holding the entire time. "I've been meaning to read you this poem on New Year's Day, for a long time. Before any man came into your life." He cleared his throat.

"To Miss Logan, With Beattie's Poems, For A New-Year's Gift, Jan. 1, 1787"

 _Again the silent wheels of time_

 _Their annual round have driven,_

 _And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,_

 _Are so much nearer Heaven._

 _No gifts have I from Indian coasts_

 _The infant year to hail;_

 _I send you more than India boasts,_

 _In Edwin's simple tale._

 _Our sex with guile, and faithless love,_

 _Is charg'd, perhaps too true;_

 _But may, dear maid, each lover prove_

 _An Edwin still to you."_

As soon as he began reading Elsie remembered. The tiny slip of paper in the back of the book. _Read to Elsie, at Hogmanay._ She would have read the poem again that day, having read it before, except Mr. Carson had yelled for help.

Even listening to Burns reminded her of him.

She was lost in thought until Da said, "Perhaps you don't remember reading _The Minstrel_ , by James Beattie? The long poem about the lad Edwin?"

"Of course I do! You put it into my hands almost the first moment I could read." She gave him a quick smile. "I still remember bits of it.

'And yet poor Edwin was no vulgar boy,

Deep thought oft seem'd to fix his infant eye…'"

She paused, trying to remember. "Ah, right."

"Silent when glad; affectionate, though shy;

And now his look was most demurely sad;

And now he laugh'd aloud, yet none knew why."

Da and Mam clapped. Da raised his eyebrows. "I'm impressed you remember even that much."

Mam laughed. "I'm not surprised. You must have read that aloud to her fifty times since she was a bairn."

"So the poem by Robbie Burns…are you saying you want me to marry someone like poor Edwin?" Elsie teased. "Or is that only advice for Miss Logan, whoever she is?"

" _If_ , and only if, you wish to marry, I hope that you would marry a man with a bit of the romantic in him. A man not afraid of a poem or a song. It may not be practical, but you would not be happy with a cold fish." His eyes were soft. "I want a man of integrity and honor for you." He tapped the book and grinned. "If the advice is good enough for Miss Logan, it's good enough for you. Just keep an open mind."

"I hope this cake is good enough for you." Beryl came in, a plate of cake in her hands. "Well, I hardly think you deserve a piece, Elsie, but here's one for you and some for Mr. and Mrs. Hughes as well."

They all thanked her and moved back into the parlor. "You're not in trouble, are you?" Beryl whispered. She almost looked hopeful.

"No, not at all. Just getting some advice." Elsie sat on the ottoman again and swallowed a bite of the moist cake. It almost melted in her mouth. "Mmmm. This is delicious."

It felt as though a weight had lifted from her shoulders. It was as if, instead of only seeing one path in front of her, there were several. Mam and Da were in good health, and happy here. Elsie smiled as Mam chatted with Bridget and Kate Philpotts, and Da engaged the shy Mr. Patmore in conversation. She blushed as they glanced in her direction.

Her heart twinged with the memory of last October. But the year, and the man, were gone.

Perhaps it was time to consider another path.


	13. The Puzzle

_Boston, March 1883_

Someone bumped into him, spinning him sideways. He nearly lost his balance. Somehow managing to stay upright, he glided to the pond's edge. Why did he ever think ice skating was a good idea?

He didn't stay by the edge long. The train from Concord had been so crowded there had barely been space to stretch his legs. He moved around a couple holding hands. He glided past Cecilia and Josephine, who giggled over some joke. Nellie stayed a close distance to Georgie, whether to keep her son from falling or from tripping other skaters, Charles couldn't tell. He caught up to Jamie, who flinched when he brushed his sleeve.

"Sorry, didn't see you." He stared blankly ahead, his voice dull. The way it had been for weeks. There were bags under his eyes, like grey shadows.

Charles puffed out a visible breath. "No apology necessary, Mr. Carter. I don't mean to intrude, but are you feeling poorly?"

Jamie shook his head, trying to smile. "No, I'm fine." They continued around the wide circle for another minute. "Well, no, I'm not fine. It's this cold. I haven't felt warm in months." He abruptly turned and skated away. Momentum carried Charles past him before he could hear what Jamie mumbled under his breath.

For several minutes, he listened to nothing except the scrape of blades against the ice, snatches of conversation, and the wind whistling past him, stinging his face. The lone figure in the red scarf caught his eye every time he passed. He didn't want to continue ignoring her, but neither could he stand the silence. After four more rotations, he finally worked up the courage to skate beside her.

"It's a nice change, isn't it?" _Please say something. Anything._

"It's better than the train, that's for sure. But the only change I want to see is the ice melting. I want to see colors again. I'm tired of white and brown."

He almost collapsed with relief. At least she was talking to him again-

"I don't want to talk about it again, Charlie. There's nothing more to say."

 _Damn_. "That's the point. We haven't actually _talked_ about what happened." He tried to keep calm, but the hurt and frustration were threatening to boil over. "It's been months! I've tried to apologize, but you won't even _listen_ -"

"Shhhhh!" She glared at him before glancing around. "You can be so loud!" She shook her head and began to skate faster, away from him. She was only a few feet in front of him when she abruptly slowed to let him catch up. He tried again.

"It was just me being a fool, that's all-"

"No." She touched her face, and to his horror, he realized she wiped away a tear. "It's more than that. I thought I could trust you. Instead, you're just like everyone I've ever known. Someone who lies to cover up his own mistakes."

She could not have said anything that would have made him feel worse. Stabbing him would not have hurt as much.

 _She's right. You're a liar and a coward,_ one tiny voice whispered. _No!_ Another whispered. _You haven't been perfect, but you're not doomed to repeat your past sins, either. She deserves to hear what you say!_

"Miss Neal…"

"What?" she snapped. "You know it's not just you falling into a stupid mud puddle, and another woman helping you out. Then you start talking about Scotland out of the blue. You saw her _again_ , even after what happened at the theater! What am I supposed to think?" She dabbed her eyes with her scarf. Both of them had sped up, as if they were racing each other.

"I want you to know that I'm telling the truth," he said. "Miss Hughes helped me out of the swamp. She was at the theater because Miss Avilov invited her, Mr. Avilov told me. When I went into that bakery, I had no idea she would be there! And her accent reminded me of where I came from, that's all." His heart ached. "Why can't you believe me when I say nothing happened?"

She said nothing as they sailed past a group of little girls, their laughter dancing in the wind.

"I care for you. More than I've let myself care for anyone. Since the day we met, I knew there was something about you." She slowed down and spoke so quietly he had to lean closer to hear her. "And I thought you cared for me, too. That's why I was so upset when I found out you hadn't told me everything."

His heart skipped a cantata. Did she just say what he had dreamed she'd say?

 _You've thought of someone else, don't forget._ _You are not as innocent as you say you are._

Alice glided to a stop, and he did the same. "Charlie?" She gazed off into the distance, the ground everywhere still covered in snow. "I want to believe you when you say you're telling the truth. I do. But-I can't be sure. I'm not even sure if _you're_ sure."

"Yes, I am," he said automatically. "Miss Neal, I-". For some reason, the words were difficult to form in his mouth, and twice as hard to say. "I do care for you. Everything that happened in St. Louis is just that – in the past. It's been 1883 for a while now." He hoped a little humor would lighten her mood.

She raised her eyebrows. "Maybe I don't forget about things as quickly as you do." She sighed. "I grew up hearing my parents say one thing, and do another. The worst part about doing the wrong thing often isn't the act itself, it's the lie afterward." She rubbed her hands together. "I appreciate you telling me that you care for me. It means a lot to me, especially knowing how hard for you that was to say." Blushing, she looked away. "I just can't be sure that you believe what you say. I know _I_ mean everything I say." She skated away before he had time to think of a reply.

In the back of his mind, he heard a soft Scottish accent: _We all have said and done things we are ashamed of…the best thing to do is to learn from it, and try not to make the same mistake again_ _._

His shoulder twitched, as if a fly was bothering him. Easy enough to learn, he thought. But what happens if the other person won't let you forget your mistake?

 _You can't seem to forget a certain mistake either_. "No," he said out loud. He began moving again. He did not want to think of that memory anymore, no matter what his conscience or Miss Neal had said. If last year was past, anything that concerned Downton was well and truly buried.

He passed Jere, who pulled Josie on a sled behind him.

The company had been traveling for weeks. They had stayed in New York at the beginning of the year, but Charles couldn't remember every place they'd been to since. New York, Philadelphia, Trenton, Hartford, and on and on. Traveling did have advantages. It kept him from thinking too much, dwelling on the past. Not that he had forgotten anything. Regardless of what he said to anyone, he couldn't seem to forget. _Above all, don't think of Downton_ _._ He would rather think about why he chased one woman, while another would not leave his thoughts.

They were so different, the brown-haired American soprano, and the blue-eyed Scotswoman. He mused that the former lady was certainly prettier. But there was something about the latter that he could not figure out. And if he was ever to convince Miss Neal that he cared for her alone, he needed to solve the puzzle that was Miss Elsie Hughes.

It was easy to care for Miss Neal. Not just because of her natural beauty. For all of her confidence on stage, and her occasional boldness off it, she exuded a certain fragility. She made him feel like she was the damsel in distress, and he, the hero. Not like Miss Hughes. She made him uncomfortable.

 _She makes_ _ **you**_ _feel vulnerable. Like she could look right through you, right from the start. 'Hold on until you feel steady', she said._

That is what bothered him from the first day they met.

"I am not weak," he growled to himself. Josephine, skating alone, glanced in his direction as he passed her.

But if he were honest with himself, she didn't make him feel weak; he already was. She simply exposed it. Stuck in a swamp, unable to move, he called for help. And then insulted the one person who came to his aid. _"…I don't mean to be rude, but you aren't exactly what I was hoping for."_ What gave him the right to be so proud? What sort of man was he? An arrogant buffoon.

He stopped skating and bent over, putting his hands on his knees. Exposed by own words. And he had followed the words by literally exposing himself! Shaking his head, he glided to the pond's edge and sat down on an ice-coated snowbank.

He was anything but innocent, especially his thoughts. Ogling her figure, keeping hold of her hands long after propriety demanded. He had almost kissed her! A strange woman! What on earth had gotten into him? He had not been raised that way. He had been so busy trying to forget the whole episode, he had never before considered his vulgarity, not to mention his arrogance, in the matter. He groaned aloud.

It was bad enough that he felt uncertain the few times he had met Miss Hughes. What must she have been thinking when they met later? Clapping a hand to his eyes, he felt mortified.

Of course it was not possible that she would be attracted to him. Not someone who so brazenly crossed propriety's boundaries. Even if he had the temerity to think she fancied him, there was no evidence for it. Her blushes and hesitation were due to the fact that every time they met, she had not expected to see him.

But what about when he almost kissed her?

He could picture her, as clear as if she was standing beside him. The flush on her cheeks, her parted lips. His heart thumped guiltily. He had no right. She was not the sort of woman, he was certain, who could be easily seduced. If she had felt something, he was sure it was all his doing. Surely it was the circumstances. A moment of weakness. _Almost_. He reminded himself that nothing had actually happened between them. When he kissed her hand, it was an expression of his gratitude. He was just being polite. If Miss Neal had seen it, he was sure she would not have considered it inappropriate.

He met Miss Hughes because of her. He had wanted to make Miss Neal happy, and so bought her a new hat for her birthday. She was the reason he found America somewhat tolerable. Miss Hughes may have reminded him of some echo of the past, but the more he thought about it, the more he knew he should put his past – all of it - where it belonged. Behind him. He was finished with guilt, with memories that dogged him. What mattered was what was in front of him.

He stood up and started walking up the hill, carrying his skates. In front of him by some distance were Josephine, Cecilia and Alice. A smile grew on his face as he watched her laugh. She playfully slapped Josephine on the shoulder with her muff. She was lovely, under the light of a glowing gaslight. Just looking at her felt right. Not awkward or uneasy.

Somehow, he would convince her that he meant what he said. She deserved nothing less.

 **Author's Note: I struggled with this chapter. I wanted Charles to have some introspection, but not put all the dots together. He's also struggling with something that happened at Downton that he doesn't like to think about. I'm not trying to torture anyone, but until he's ready to confront it, I have to be vague. In canon, he's a man of rules and structure, and I'm finding that if he wants to mentally put unpleasant things aside, he will. Except when it comes to a certain young woman. Also, one of the hardest things I've found about this story is remembering how young both he and Elsie are - at this point, he's 25, and she's just 21.**

 **But he's also a goober who "can't see past the end of his nose", as Mary Poppins said. Eventually...**

 **Please review, if you have time.**


	14. God Did Not Make Russians

**A/N: What are you doing, reading this chapter today? Go look at the pictures of Jim and Phyllis kissing on Tumblr. That never gets old. :)**

 _A train heading west in Illinois, April 1883_

"Mr. Carson! Guess what?" Georgie bounced up and down on the seat next to him. Charles wondered where he got his energy.

"What?" He leaned against the window.

"I get to blow the whistle! Dad's going with me. The con-condacker's gonna let me pull the lever!"

"Who?"

"You mean the _conductor_ , Georgie." Nellie leaned across the aisle where she was teaching Josie multiplication sums. "Please sit still. Mr. Carson may want to rest." She gave Charles an apologetic shrug. He smiled back.

"Mrs. Cohan, I never get much rest on trains. I shall endure until we arrive," he sighed dramatically. He didn't want to mention how little sleep he had had the night before they left. Nellie laughed as Josie began reciting the five times table. Jere appeared through the doorway to the next car.

"George! Are you ready? Mr. Smith is ready now." His son was out of his seat and down the aisle almost before he had finished speaking. Charles leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. _Pa-dum-pum. PA-dum-pum. Pa-DUM-DUM-pum. Pa-dum-PA-dum-pum._

He woke as the train slowed down. Stretching his arms and yawning, he glanced out the window.

"So you don't get much rest on trains?" Alice stood in the aisle, holding onto the seat. Behind her, the female Cohans grinned. Josie pointed straight at him.

"You were snoring! Louder than the train!"

"Was I?" Charles didn't feel fully awake yet.

"You were," Alice bit her lip in amusement. "Maybe not as loud as the train, but certainly loud enough for us to hear you on the other side of the car."

At that moment, the whistle was blown with significant gusto. Charles held his hands over his ears, but it didn't help to keep out the noise. Alice gestured to the seat next to him. He patted it, and she sat down, holding her own ears. Finally, the train slowed almost to a crawl, and the whistle blissfully stopped.

"Well, he got to blow it to his heart's content," Charles said. "I'm sure he's happy." Alice cautiously lowered her hands.

"Georgie?" He nodded.

"You have more patience than I do, Charlie." She pressed her fingers to her forehead.

"Are you all right?" He didn't want to worry, but she did look pale.

"I'm fine. It's just a headache."

"Well, you don't look fine. I'll get a powder-". He started to get up, but she put her hand on his sleeve. Shaking her head, she folded her hands in her lap.

"I'll take one when we get there. Really, I'll be fine. I'm sure it's just the change in the weather." He sat back down reluctantly. It was true, it had been colder in Cincinnati. They had traveled through a wicked thunderstorm, and now found themselves crossing Illinois in what was clearly spring.

"The trees are all budding. It's so nice to see some color!" A dimple showed in her cheek as she looked out the window. She caught him staring and they both looked in different directions.

She sighed, breaking the awkward silence. "I wish we were going to be on the train for longer."

"That's something not many would say."

Rolling her eyes, she ran her hand over the brim of her hat. "I don't mean that I love the train. But I'd love to go to San Francisco."

He raised his eyebrows. "You can't be serious. All the way to California? In heaven's name, why?"

"Why not?"

"Well-" he fought between wanting to share his full opinion versus wanting to continue the peace they had shared for several weeks. "Don't you ever get tired of going from one place to another? I should think it would be nice to stay in one place for a while."

"Not really," she pursed her lips. He held his breath. "I like to travel. It's always exciting to see new places, experience new things. Besides, the last thing I want to do is get stuck somewhere. Then I really _would_ end up like my mother." She shuddered. "That's a fate worse than death, for me." She frowned, brushing off her skirt as the train began to move again. "I thought you liked to travel. At least, isn't that what you said a few weeks ago?"

"I said I found it tolerable." He emphasized the last word. "And while it is agreeable to occasionally set one's eyes beyond the horizon, surely it is man's natural state to want to settle somewhere."

"Are you saying to want to settle in St. Louis?" She looked incredulous.

 _What?_ "Why would I want to stay there? I was merely saying that most people do not wish to spend their life moving from place to place."

She shook her head, but thankfully, she was smiling again. "You speak about wanting to stay in one place, then you wonder why I ask if you want to stay in the very next place we're going. And I don't know if you've noticed, but here in the United States, a lot of people spend their entire lives moving."

"Fair enough," he said softly. If he were to speak the truth, he found it refreshing to return to a place where they had stayed for a length of time. After never staying in one city longer than a week or two during the winter, he relished the thought of fully unpacking his trunk again. But he would never say this to her; he was sure she would take it the wrong way.

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 _St. Louis, the next morning_

He whistled as he hurried back to the theater. Surely they hadn't started yet. He had gotten up earlier than normal to make sure he could go on his errand before the company was expected to rehearse.

Stepping quickly through the side door, he was relieved to hear the others in the dressing rooms. He knocked quietly and entered when he heard her voice.

"Good morning, Miss Neal. You're looking much better today." She smiled at him in the mirror, then gasped at the sight of what was in his hands. She leapt up from her chair, nearly turning it over.

"Oh, Charlie! They're beautiful! Where did you get them?" She took the various blossoms from him, and set them in an empty vase. He knew his smile was too wide to be proper, but her happiness made him ebullient.

"There is a rather large farmers' market near here," he explained. "I thought a pretty lady deserved some color in her dressing room."

Her face reddened. "The pretty lady is very thankful."

They stood facing each other for a moment, then he cleared his throat. "Should we go?"

"Yes, just a moment," she reached for a pin to hold an errant strand of hair in place. He held the door open for her and they made their way backstage. Coming out from the wings, there was a commotion. Stage hands lowered sets while Eugene shouted directions. Georgie and Josie chased each other back and forth in the aisles, climbing under seats. Grigg also sat in the theater, his hat half over his face and his feet up on the seat in front of him. Josephine and Jamie tuned their violins. Someone trilled a fantastic chord on the piano, then began playing the first notes of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody.

Charles jerked his head to find Peter Avilov sitting behind the instrument. As he played, the noise and movement around him slowed. Alice brushed by Charles and sat down in the front row. His heart sank as he noticed her thin lips, her dark expression. Josephine left the stage and joined her. To Charles's surprise, she looked as dismayed as Alice. He leaned over and whispered to Jere, who motioned his children to sit down.

"What's wrong with Miss Carter? I thought she got along with Mr. Avilov." Jere shrugged in response. They waited until Peter had finished before applauding. Charles looked at Alice, a question in his eyes. She shook her head, crossing her arms.

Well, he was not going to be rude. No matter how much the man reminded him of the past. He went over to the piano to find Jamie already there.

"Mr. Avilov, it's nice to see you again," he said, shaking the older man's hand. A genuine smile lit up Peter's face as he stood up.

"It is very good to see you, Mr. Carson."

"Your English has improved," Charles said.

"Yes, thank you." He nodded. "I had some lessons during the winter. I wanted to speak better."

"And how is your family? All well?" Jamie asked. Peter removed his spectacles, cleaning them with his handkerchief.

"Yes, all well, all very well. My oldest son Vasili is engaged to a young woman who lives in the city. Her family is from Vladivostok. My wife is happy she is Russian." His eyes twinkled.

"Congratulations," said Jamie, exchanging an amused glance with Charles.

"Thank you. And my daughter Penelope has been – how do you say? – very popular this winter and this spring."

"Oh?" Jamie asked. "Is she engaged, too?"

Peter shook his head, his long blond mustache brushing his bare chin. "No. But soon, we think."

Charles sat on the edge of the bench and pretended to clean his shoe. He did not want to give Alice the impression he was wholly interested with Peter or his family. And he wasn't. He did not wish them ill, but their lives did not concern him.

"…the young man is very nice, but he is not Russian and my Natalya, my wife is not happy."

Jamie leaned against the piano and plunked the lower keys. "What about you? Are you happy with him? Do you tell your children that they must only be with Russians?"

"I like him," Peter said decisively. "If my children are happy, I am happy. God did not make us Russian, American, French-".

"Certainly not French," Charles muttered. He moved over to give Jamie room to sit on the bench. Jamie choked back a laugh.

"-my friend Mr. Hughes, the one who helps with my English, says the same. A man who is not Scottish courts his daughter-"

The corner of the piano bench slipped underneath Charles, and he fell hard onto the stage. He quickly rolled onto his side and winced. It felt like he had fallen right on his tailbone. He stood up slowly, smoothing his trousers. No one seemed to make much of it. Neither Alice nor Josephine looked up from the discussion. He let out a long breath.

"Are you all right, Mr. Carson?" Peter did not seem very worried. Jamie raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"Perfectly all right." Charles went down the stairs and sat two seats over from Alice. He was grateful the front seats had cushions.

"What did he say?"

Charles shrugged. "He is well, his family is well. His oldest son is engaged."

"Oh, that's nice." Alice smiled at him, showing her dimples, then returned to her whispered conversation.

They were getting along so well. He was cautious, wanting to move faster, but not wanting to push her. She was thrilled when he gave her little gifts, like the flowers. He was content to make her happy.

Miss Avilov was almost engaged. And it seemed her friend Miss Hughes would be soon, as well. All the best to her.

So why did it bother him?


	15. Like and Love

**A/N: Thank you for reading, and reviewing. They all keep me going. Special thanks to the guest reviewers, since I can't thank you individually! This is a long chapter, but I realized there is a** _ **lot**_ **coming up in this story, and I wanted to space some of it out.**

 **One of the hardest things about this story is that they – Charles, Elsie, and everyone else – are very young. Some of the aspects of their characters are not "set in stone", so to speak. I want to keep them as close to canon as I can, but they sometimes say and do things that are different. Elsie in particular is driving me crazy.**

 **As always, I do not own Downton Abbey.**

 _St. Louis, April 1883_

Elsie turned the card in the window with a sigh of relief. Another long day filled with scrawny boys being fitted for their confirmation suits, taller girls for their dresses, young women searching for a more fashionable "store-bought" dress, and men who either needed new coats, or mending for their old ones.

It never ended.

"Are you ready, Pen?" she asked. "The table's set up in the back room, Sam did it."

"I know," said Pen, clearing off the counter and handing the ledgers to Fred Schwartzmann. "The cake was delivered before he moved the table. He already ate a piece."

"He never did!" Elsie gasped. "Really, it's not his birthday! We could have saved him a piece for tomorrow!"

Helen came out of the back room. "If you want to blame someone for it, blame me. The boy was hungry. I couldn't let him go without giving him something."

"Well, I won't begrudge him that," Elsie said, moving past her into the small room. She pulled the tablecloth so it was even and checked the tea tray. She heard the front door open. A moment later, Pen and Beryl appeared.

"This looks nice!" Beryl sighed. She sat down in the chair while Pen hung up her hat. "I see someone's already had cake."

"Sam Wescott," Pen said, sitting down. "He sometimes does little jobs for Mr. Schwartzmann."

"I know him," said Beryl. "He sweeps out the kitchen for us in exchange for a place to sleep. Kate pretends to complain, but she's got a soft spot for boys down on their luck, especially now."

Fred handed the key to the front door to Elsie. She took it and placed it carefully on her chatelaine, next to her thimble. "Make sure you remember to lock up when you're finished, Miss Hughes," the owner said.

"I will. Thank you for letting us have our party here!"

"You're welcome." Helen smiled. "Have a lovely tea, ladies." They left.

Beryl sagged in her chair. "They have no idea how grateful I am. I'm about to go off my rocker at home. Kate's lost her mind!"

"She's having a baby, Beryl. Try to have some sympathy for her," Elsie said. She didn't think the plea would work, but there was no harm trying.

"Lots of women have babies! And they don't go 'round the bend," Beryl argued as Elsie placed a slice of cake on her plate. "When your mum carried Becky, I'm sure she wasn't waking your dad every night to check for mice under the bed!"

Pen laughed. "Poor Ronald."

"Poor me, more like! She's always been hard on me, but now it's worse than ever," Beryl sniffed. A moment later, she pulled out her handkerchief and started bawling.

"What's wrong?" Elsie said, exchanging a worried glance with Pen. She sat down and put her arm around her friend. "It can't be as bad as all that."

"It's not. But if it were just the baby, I could cope." Beryl sobbed, her face an angry red. "But it's the two of you as well. You'll go off and get married…and…and I'll be alone." She hiccupped, dabbing her face.

"Calm down, Beryl," Pen patted her on the shoulder. "When Billy and I get married, I'll only move a short distance away. Florissant is only twenty miles from here." Elsie closed her eyes as Beryl wailed again.

"Twenty miles! It might as well be the far side of the moon!" she exclaimed. Elsie pushed a fork into her hand.

"Have some cake. You know you can take the train there, which makes it much easier to travel to than the moon. And really," she refrained from rolling her eyes, "Mr. Mason hasn't even proposed yet. And if I got a proposal, do you think I wouldn't say anything to you? We're here now, so let's try to enjoy your birthday, hmmm? Happy seventeenth!"

"Oh, all right," Beryl obeyed the order while Pen poured tea, her face pink.

"It's true, he hasn't proposed…yet. But he will soon. I know it," she said quietly.

"How do you know?" Beryl ate a bite of cake. "Has he written to your dad?"

"Yes." A glowing smile crossed Pen's face. Elsie's mouth dropped open.

"You haven't told me that! When!?"

"Last week. I wasn't supposed to know, but-"

"Sandy told you," Elsie and Beryl said together. Pen nodded sheepishly. Beryl harrumphed, dropping her fork on the table.

"Is there anything your brother _doesn't_ tell you?

The smile drained away, along with much of the color in Pen's face. She laughed and looked away. "No, he doesn't tell me everything," she whispered. She cut into her cake and swallowed a large piece. Beryl and Elsie glanced at each other, their eyebrows raised. Beryl mouthed, _I've no idea_.

"Well," said Elsie to cover the sudden silence, "if Mr. Mason has written to your father, then it won't be long now. What a change in your family – Vasili's getting married next month, and you soon to follow!"

"I'm glad my brother _is_ getting married, especially right now," Pen said. She seemed to be eager to talk of something else. "Mama is thrilled he's found a Russian girl. It takes her mind off me."

"Is she still angry at you? Because Mr. Mason isn't Orthodox?" Beryl blurted out. Elsie nudged her, but Pen didn't seem to be offended.

"Yes. I hope she'll change her mind someday." Pen bit her lip. "Papa, Sandy and Viktor like him, which helps a lot. More importantly, _I_ like him. I love him," she said, blushing again. Her friends laughed.

"I should hope that he loves you as well," Elsie said, smiling fondly. She would miss Pen too, more than she would care to admit. To cover the threatening tears, she bit into the sweet yellow cake.

"Speaking of love, what about you, Miss Hughes?" Beryl said. Elsie gagged. She drank some tea, feeling her throat constrict.

"What _do_ you think of the ever-faithful Barney Patmore? He's been courting you for months. I should think a proposal is just around the corner!"

"Beryl, leave her alone..."

"It's a fair question," Elsie coughed. Both of her friends looking at her, waiting.

What did she think? Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew it should not be complicated. But it was.

He had first taken her sleigh-riding in January. They both had enjoyed the countryside immensely, after months in the city. Then, he had taken her to a harp concert to celebrate her birthday in February.* Ever since he seemed to be everywhere. He had walked her home from work more than once. Elsie suspected that Michael invited him to family gatherings at Bridget's behest, but she had not talked to her cousin about it.

The difficult thing was that she enjoyed his company. He was very nice, though shy. They found it easy to converse, and enjoyed some of the same activities. He was not as well-read as Elsie would have preferred, but she was not sure how much that should count against him. He was a hard worker, but not consumed by ambition. And he was from Yorkshire. That was another point in his favor.

But was that it?

If she was honest with herself, she was fond of him. But she could not, and would not, summon feelings she did not have. She did not want to hurt him.

Throughout the cold winter months, she had gone to more parties, socials, concerts, and various other gatherings, than she had previously done in her entire life. She had been squired by more than one man. She had tried not to attend anything more than once with the same man, especially considering at times she felt the attention was given to her because the men in question often wanted to hear about Pen.

Barney Patmore was different. He seemed to like her for _her_. There was no pretense, no façade about him. She could not ignore that.

There were other things, or more specifically someone, that she found difficult to ignore.

"I…I don't know," she finally said. "I'm not keeping secrets, and I'm not trying to be difficult." She drank the last of her tea. "I don't know."

"Sometimes it is hard describing what you feel," Pen said. She scratched her nose. "Especially when you feel that way for the first time."

A hard lump lodged itself in Elsie's throat. At the same time, she felt a physical ache in her chest. She looked down at the table and ran her finger along a tiny crack. She had once run her fingers over a man's forehead, to clean it of mud. As much as she wanted to forget, she could not avoid the truth. She had felt deeply about someone, but that someone was certainly not Mr. Patmore.

"Do you care for him?" Beryl asked quietly.

"Yes," said Elsie without thinking. For a moment, she wondered who Beryl was talking about. She blinked rapidly. "I do care for him," she said, knowing either way it was true. Thinking about Mr. Patmore specifically, she continued. "But I don't know if I care for him like that." She bit her lip. _He's a nice man. He deserves better._

"I wasn't sure early on if I cared for Billy…like that," Pen said. "It took a little while for me to realize that I did. Maybe you just need a little time."

"Maybe," Elsie said. _Or maybe not._

Beryl dropped her hands onto the table with a loud thump, rattling the plates. "Oh, what rubbish!" she exclaimed. The other two raised their eyebrows. She pointed straight at Elsie. "The trouble with you isn't time, or whether you can get along with him. Anyone can see that you do." She shook her head. "No, Elsie Hughes, your problem is that you like Mr. Patmore, but you love Mr. Carson."

There was a long silence. "She's right," Pen said very quietly. Beryl nodded her thanks.

"I don't want to listen to this," Elsie said. She stood up so quickly her chair fell over. She suddenly felt hot, and her chest heaved with a breath that her corset could not accommodate.

"I think you have to," said Pen, getting up and standing with her back against the door. "No matter how much you want to avoid it."

Elsie flung her hands in the air. "Mr. Carson doesn't matter! He's gone! And anyway, Mr. Patmore is a perfectly decent man. Any woman would be lucky to get a proposal from him!"

"But not every woman would accept him, or should." Beryl picked up Elsie's abandoned chair and propped her feet on it. "And something tells me that he would not appreciate a woman marrying him when she's still in love with someone else. I might be younger than you, but I'm not that daft."

Rolling her eyes, Elsie strode to the back window. In the alley behind Oakland Avenue, several bright perennials had popped up in the soft earth.

"Els," Pen began hesitantly. "What if Mr. Carson came back? Wouldn't it be worth seeing him again, and taking a chance?"

"But he's not back," Elsie said over her shoulder. "Any chance I might have taken is past. The universe, or God, or Fate, whatever you want to call it-has clearly said we are not meant to be together. It was just an accident that we met at all." She swallowed that infernal lump in her throat. She knew that her friends were right. She had tried all winter to forget him. But like the perennials, the memory of him kept coming back.

"You're wrong."

"How can I be wrong?" Elsie burst out. "Every encounter we had was marked by his relationship with Miss Neal. Yes, we were friendly before Christmas, but that's all." Her throat burned. Suddenly, she turned to face them again.

"What do you mean, 'I'm wrong'? What are you saying?" Her heart sprang to attention. Surely Pen was not saying-

"Yes," Pen said. To her credit, she was at least trying not to smile. Beryl looked like the proverbial Cheshire cat. "Mr. Carson came back last week."

Elsie slumped against the table, pulling at a hairpin. Her heart seized within her. _I can't do this. Not again._

"Maybe the universe is trying to tell you something," Beryl said, crossing her arms.

"For pity's sake, don't tease me!" Elsie cried. The other two flinched. To steady her hands, she poured another cup of tea. Gripping the cup made her feel better. She took a small sip followed by a deep breath.

"I'm not going to seek him out, if that's what you're wondering," she retorted. "I cannot imagine what he would think. I've been far too forward with him as it is." _And I do not think I could endure seeing him with Miss Neal._

Pen and Beryl looked at each other in despair.

"Well, if you're sure…" Beryl sounded hesitant. Elsie glared at her over her tea and she glared right back. "All right. But that still leaves Mr. Patmore."

Elsie felt a sharp pang of guilt. She did not care for him in a particularly romantic way, but neither was she keen to lose a friend.

"And what if he proposes, and I turn him down? He's been very nice to me," she said, frowning.

"He would appreciate your honesty over you settling for him. Heaven help me-". Pen sighed, her eyes on the ceiling. "-but Beryl is right again. I think God has a hand in this."

"Can somebody write that down?" Beryl asked. Elsie shook her head. She could not bring herself to think it would be that easy.

"Oh, give yourself some credit, you are right sometimes, even if Kate won't admit it," she said. "But there are other people I have to think about. I would feel horrible if I turned him down, and he then had a falling out with Michael and Bridget."

"He would be a small-minded person if he let it come to that," Pen said. "They own a business together; surely he wouldn't let his personal feelings overcome that! He doesn't strike me as the type to do that sort of thing."

"But I also have to think about Mam and Da, and Becky most of all," Elsie argued. "What would be better for my sister? I don't like the idea of someday having to send her away to be cared for. I would do it willingly, for her sake-" her voice wobbled-"because there is no way I would send her to an asylum. If I worked as a housekeeper, I think I could pay for her care myself. I don't see the point of involving a man in her care, even if my mother would like to see me get married."

"Your mum and dad want you to be happy," Beryl said. "I'm not saying you have to marry him, or anyone. But consider this, Elsie. He's met Becky, he likes her. I don't see him resenting you for her sake. He's a good, kind, and decent man. You know, there are decent men on this earth."

"Really?" Pen asked, pretending to be surprised.

"And as well as both Pen and I think you would do in service, we rather like you too. We don't want you to leave. Not if you don't have to."

"Thank you for that," Elsie said. It was quite clear to her that she would have to turn down Mr. Patmore if he asked, no matter the consequences. It warmed her heart to know he was fond of Becky. It would hurt if she lost his friendship. But she simply could not see herself married to him. Perhaps if they had met years ago, when she still lived at the farm…

But she was not that farm girl anymore. She had seen a bit of the world, and knew more about herself.

Beryl drank the rest of her tea. "This was lovely, thanks for the birthday tea. I'm sorry I was upset earlier. Maybe Kate will ease up a bit." She chuckled. "Or maybe not. It could be the hurricane is still to come."

"You never can tell with people," Elsie said, raising an eyebrow.

Pen finished her cake. "There's more, if anyone wants any." Elsie set aside a piece for Becky, while Beryl packed the rest. They straightened up the rest of the room, then left, Elsie careful to lock the front door.

"You sound like a housekeeper, with that key and your sewing kit on that chain," Pen commented as they walked down the street arm-in-arm. Beryl groaned.

"I'd rather you get married than go back to Britain. That really would be like going to the moon!"

"Well, I won't be getting married anytime soon, I can promise that," Elsie said. In some ways, it made her feel better that her mind was more at ease.

"Are you sure you won't go see Mr. Carson while he's here? Just to talk?" Pen asked.

"No, I won't go see him," Elsie said shortly. "I'll thank you not to ask again." For the rest of the walk home, the girls were quiet.

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 _St. Louis, a few days later_

"Miss Hughes?"

Elsie turned as Michael finished wrapping her groceries. Mr. Patmore had finished stacking bags of flour. He swallowed, dusting off his hands on his apron, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "Could I help you? Carry your bags?

"Thank you, that's very kind." She smiled. He picked up the various packages and exchanged a short glance with Michael. He opened the door for her onto the street. They walked down Oakland Avenue, around puddles of muddy water and gifts from horses. The day was overcast. Thankfully, the rain had held off for a while.

He wasn't saying anything. He usually did not talk much, but this was unusual. Elsie bit her lip, thinking of the conversation with her friends.

"We're getting a shipment of oranges next week. Becky might like one," he said as they turned onto Tamm.

Elsie laughed. "She likes almost everything. Except radishes. Or turnips." He smiled.

"I'll keep that in mind." They continued on until they were nearly to St. James' Church. He stopped abruptly, setting down her groceries carefully. "Might I have a word? I'd feel more comfortable here, rather than on your front porch."

"Certainly," she said, turning to face him. Her mouth went completely dry. _He is going to propose._

He cleared his throat and put his hands behind his back, one hand gripping the other wrist. He opened his mouth, then shut it again.

"I hardly know how to begin," he muttered. Her heart felt lodged in her throat, but she managed to answer.

"Try," she said as gently as she could. _I don't want to, but I'm going to hurt him._ They turned as Mrs. O'Callahan walked past. She gave them a long look, but hurried on.

"Miss Hughes, are we friends? I would hope that we are," he stammered. His pale face flushed. "You are one of the nicest people I know. And-and you are one of the prettiest."

Elsie took a breath. "Thank you."

"But I don't think we should walk out together anymore."

 _What?_ "What?" She was not expecting that.

He nodded, putting a hand behind his head to smooth his hair down. "I enjoy spending time with you. But it's not fair to do so, not at the risk of your reputation," he looked down briefly, then up again. "I respect you very much and if you are willing, I would like to remain your friend. But I am not going to propose to you."

Heat flooded her body. She covered her face with her hands. _Thank God above._ Her knees felt weak with relief.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, sounding worried. "And I hope I haven't led you on. But I think honesty is the best policy."

"I think that's wise," she said shakily. She smiled at him and received a tentative one in return. "Because if I am honest, Mr. Patmore, I feel the same."

His mouth fell open. "Really? You're not just trying to make me feel better, are you?"

"No, though I'm glad I do," she said. "I-I think you are a fine man. But…I don't think you are the man for me."

"No," he agreed. He pressed his lips together, then inexplicably, laughed. "Some men would be insulted by that. I was afraid that _you_ would be insulted. Michael told me otherwise, that you were of a more independent mind than most women. And that you would appreciate honesty over all else."

Elsie bit her lip. Would wonders never cease? Either all of their friends were in some grand conspiracy together, or…Beryl was right. The universe was trying to tell her something. _**He**_ _has nothing to do with this._ "Yes, he was right," she said, forcing herself to concentrate. "I'm glad we can be honest with each other." She hesitated, then held out her hand. "Friends?"

He shook her hand firmly. "Friends. Truly, if you ever need something, please ask me." He picked up the rest of her things and walked with her to the house.

"What will Mrs. O'Callahan say?" She whispered surreptitiously as they watched the woman in question scuttle back into her house.

"Whatever she'll say, I won't give her any more grist for gossip," he said. "Good day, Miss Hughes. I'm sure we'll meet again soon." He went down the porch steps.

"Goodbye, Mr. Patmore," she said. She watched him as he strode across the lawn.

"Oh," he pulled up short, turning quickly. "I can bring an orange for Becky next week, if you think she would like it."

"Thank you. I think she would!" He nodded, then disappeared down the street. She sighed as she lugged everything into the back kitchen. Da was not home from work yet, and Mam and Becky were still at Ailsa's. She removed her hat. She ran a hand over her hair, then sat down with a plop on Da's chair.

She was relieved he had not proposed. They would still be friends. She was very glad of that. She tried not to think of what her friends would say; Beryl would rub it in, she was sure.

Elsie leaned against the back of the chair. She folded her hands, resting her forehead on them.

If only she could forget about Mr. Carson, then she would have few worries at all.

0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

 **Birthdays – I made them up. In this story, Beryl's is April 10** **th** **, Elsie's is February 17** **th** **.**


	16. Real And Not Real

_St. Louis, May 1883_

 _He struggled through a thicket of trees-where was he? He ducked under a branch and suddenly came out into open space._

 _Downton Abbey._

 _It was bigger than he remembered._

 _He walked at a brisk pace down the long road, past the front door and the innumerable windows, and around the side to the servants' entrance. He noticed with some surprise that he wore the Butler's livery. He climbed down the stairs into the empty hallway, hearing voices in the kitchen. As he continued down the hall, two maids hurried up the stairs, their white caps and aprons gleaming._

 _Part of him wanted to look into the servants' hall and the kitchen, to see who was in there, but he kept moving, as if he was pulled to a magnet._

 _Pulled home._

 _He stopped for a brief moment at the door, knocked, and entered the housekeeper's sitting room. She sat at her desk, absorbed in her work. He stood still for a moment watching her. He feasted on the sight of her neck, the curve of her face. She hummed a low tune as she worked. He glided silently behind her, bent over, and kissed her on the cheek._

 _She turned, not surprised at his presence. A dazzling smile spread across her face as she set down her pen._

" _Mr. Carson," she said in a low voice, her lilt pronounced, "I didn't hear you come in_ _._ _"_

 _Every fiber in his body thrilled at the sound of her voice._

" _I'm sorry I was late, Mrs. Hughes."_

 _He held out his hand and helped her to her feet. She blushed when he took her other hand. Without another word, he bent over her smaller form and pressed his lips to hers._

 _She tasted heavenly, like sunshine, blackberries and cream, and the deepest, richest red wine he could imagine. He stroked her face with his fingers while his mouth explored her bottom lip. She gasped and pulled him by the lapels, bringing him closer. He stumbled against her chair._

 _In the next instant, the chair, her desk, the room and the Abbey itself had disappeared. They were outside, sitting underneath a large oak. He glimpsed yellow leaves above his head before he felt her hand brush his face. He captured it, and kissed it repeatedly. Somehow her black dress and chatelaine were gone, replaced by a navy skirt and an enticing white blouse. She half-sat up, from having been on the ground. He was so enthralled by the way the auburn strands in her hair glowed in the sunlight that he didn't notice she had undone two buttons on his shirt._

 _She ran her fingers down his jawline, over his chin and down his throat. She twined the visible hair from in between the folds of his shirt. His breath caught at her touch._

" _Mr. Carson," she purred, her eyes dark, "kiss me."_

 _He obliged with an ardor that almost overwhelmed him. He kissed her forehead, her nose. His tongue slipped between her lips and she nipped it with her teeth, making him groan. He devoured the soft skin on her neck. He delighted when she cried out, running her fingers through his hair. Her blouse had slipped from one shoulder. He sucked gently at the exposed skin, feeling the vibrations of her moans. His hands slid down to her waist, bunched the fabric of her skirt, pulled it up-_

He crashed onto the floor. For one, long, agonizing moment he lay there stunned. He then sat up, completely tangled in the quilt. By the dim moonlight, he saw that Grigg had, once again, not come back to the boardinghouse to sleep. He lay back down on the floor.

Downton. That was new. How many times had he had the dream in one form or another? Him in one place or the other, encountering her. Him seducing her. Just now, the dream had not gone nearly as far as two nights ago. He felt his face warm at the memory of when he woke. He hadn't had to clean his sheets in years.

Mrs. Hughes. No, Miss Hughes, he corrected himself. She wasn't the housekeeper at Downton. She wasn't the housekeeper anywhere. She was…unforgettable.

He groaned, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. Downstairs, the grandfather clock struck a quarter past three.

It was all too much. He and Miss Neal seemed to be growing closer. There was open talk now among the others about them. Nellie had asked him directly if they were engaged. In his own mind, there was little reason _not_ to ask her to marry him.

Except these dreams that continued with increasing frequency were beginning to affect him. He was irritated by the interrupted sleep, by the never-ending cycle of shows, by Grigg's strange absences (though he had, so far, not missed a show yet). He untangled enough of the quilt for him to get up from the floor and back into bed. He doubted he'd be able to go back to sleep, but there was no harm trying. He watched moonlight flicker on the ceiling. Guilt began to gnaw at him again.

He enjoyed the dreams. It wasn't just the physical side of it. Whenever they encountered each other, in his mind at least, it always felt like something had finally come into place, like finding the right key to a door. She was always happy to see him, always eager for his touch. He turned over onto his side, facing the wall. He knew very well that the real Miss Hughes would never act that way. She would slap him for kissing her.

The image of her, sitting in the housekeeper's sitting room, came back to him.

He punched the pillow in frustration. Sleep was not going to come easily.

00000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

"Coffee?"

He had been staring at a spot on the tablecloth for who knows how long. He looked up at Jamie with bleary eyes.

"No, thank you."

Jamie pushed the cup across the table, tapped the side of it. "Drink it anyway. You look like you could use it. I put some sugar in it, so it won't be as bitter."

Reluctantly, Charles sucked on the hot liquid. It burned his tongue, but it also woke him up a little. He drank it as fast as he could, feeling the heat warm his chest. They left as soon as he was finished to walk to the theater. There was a slight breeze. Charles leaned his head back, feeling it revive him.

"You were dreaming about her again, weren't you? Miss Hughes, I mean."

Charles's eyes widened in shock. "You say that like it's written on my face." Jamie shrugged and slapped him on the back.

"It may as well be. You're lucky Alice doesn't know."

Charles's head whipped in his direction. "Does anyone else know? I told you in confidence-"

"I haven't broken it," Jamie hesitated. "Well, all right, I told _one_ person, but no one else."

All the blood drained out of Charles's face. He stopped, holding onto a hitching post for support. "Alice will know by now," he growled through clenched teeth. "Your sister would have told her."

"I didn't tell Josephine," Jamie said quickly, removing his hat to slick hair over his ear. "I love her, but I would never tell her something like that, she's too close to Alice." He swallowed. "And anyway, she's pretty angry with me right now, so I'm trying to avoid her as much as possible."

Charles felt his heartbeat return, albeit slowly. He let go of the post and they continued down the street. A boy hawking fresh bread sang cheerfully as they turned onto 8th Street. Charles winced.

"It's too early for that."

Jamie snickered. "You are not a morning person, Charlie Carson."

"Yes, I am," he protested. "I used to be up hours before now when I was in service. But there's no reason for high spirits early in the morning!"

"Except for when you're alone in your bed…" Jamie mumbled, but not so quiet Charles could not hear him.

"I told you, I cannot control what I dream," he fumed, his eyes blazing. "The woman in my dreams, she might look like-like someone I knew, but she isn't real."

"But Miss Hughes _is_ real. Why you won't go see her is beyond me," Jamie snorted. "You would rather torment yourself, and confuse Alice, rather than simply go see a woman who happens to live in the city where you've been staying for the past month. It is not that difficult! Damnation," he rolled his eyes. "Of all the stubborn, hard-headed people I've ever met, you are the worst!"

Charles shook his head. Ever since he had broken down and told Jamie, the man would not let the matter rest. He kept trying to convince him to go see Miss Hughes. Charles did not see the point, but after the last few nights he was beginning to question his own judgment. Avoiding her did not seem to be helping him move on with his life. Rather, it seemed to make things worse. But how and when would he go and see her? What if she did not want to see him? What if she was engaged – or married?

"Wait," Jamie said, pulling on his sleeve. Charles blinked in surprise. They were already almost to the stage door. "I need to talk to you in private."

"I think you've said everything already." Charles turned to go in, but Jamie grabbed his shoulder.

"It's not about your troubles with women. It's something else." His lips were pressed together, a crease visible in his forehead.

"What is it?" Charles asked curiously as Jamie led him back further into the alley. They stopped beside a crumbling pile of bricks.

"Do you remember when Eugene was in such a terrible state a few days ago?"

"I'm not likely to forget about it soon." The manager had been relentless for several days. He had even insisted on them performing five shows on Sunday, which while most of the company was not religious, had annoyed all of them simply because they missed having extra time to rest.

Jamie shifted from one foot to the other. "Close to forty-five dollars went missing. And thirty the week before that. Eugene fired the house manager two weeks ago, thinking he was the thief. Then it happened again."

Charles's mouth dropped open. "I had heard something about money missing, but I had no idea it was that much!"

Jamie nodded. "Charlie, it's Grigg."

He felt as though his blood had turned to ice. "How do…are you sure? How do you know?" he croaked.

"Because I saw him take the money, at least the second time. He gave some to Morris, the usher." Jamie was looking everywhere except at him. Charles did not have to ask why he had not told Eugene or notified the police.

If Grigg was the thief, he would be out as well. There could not be only one Cheerful Charlie. It was possible that he, as Grigg's partner, would be treated with suspicion as well.

"I thought I would…tell you first. I thought you needed to know."

Charles backed up against the theater wall, feeling the building beneath his fingers. "Thank you for telling me," he said in that strange voice.

It made sense. Grigg not coming back to the boardinghouse at night, bloodshot eyes in the morning, often walking in backstage with a pungent odor of whiskey and cheap perfume hanging off of his clothes. He had wondered how Grigg could afford going out every night. No doubt he was enjoying himself in the brothels and saloons by the riverfront. Charles had little doubt that his partner most likely carried heavy gaming debts by now. The ice in Charles's veins rapidly turned to fire. _The first time, shame on you, the second time, shame on me._ _I'll kill him._

"He stole from the manager in London. That's why they chucked us out," he snapped, staring at a crack in the opposite wall. "It was not as big a sum of money, but it did not matter. We were out on the streets." He clenched his fists, whether more angry at Grigg or himself in that moment, he couldn't tell. _I should have left him then. I should have gone back to Downton. If Mr. DeArdo had not found us, offered us a place in America, I would have. I still have Mr. Palmer's letter…_

 _You may need it, sooner rather than later._

"I thought we might confront him together, try to convince him to stop, or at least pay some of it back," Jamie said, his hands tugging on the ends of his sleeves. Charles jumped. He had forgotten Jamie was there.

"I doubt he will listen," he growled. "But we have to try. We have no choice." He sighed, the truth sinking in. " _I_ have no other choice."

No other words were spoken as they went inside.


	17. Pen's Secret

**A/N: I'm sorry for the long delay in this story. I was unsure of how to write this part, as the story moves on. It's all been planned since May, but sometimes it's difficult to say what you mean to say. And the idea for "Managing Love" took over my brain for most of September, which put this further on the back-burner. That will be updated in the next couple of days. As usual, I do not own Downton Abbey.**

 _St. Louis, May 1883_

"Becky! Slow down!" Elsie chased her little sister down Tamm Avenue. She caught up to the squealing youngster and swept her up in her arms. Behind them, Pen put a hand to her chest, breathing hard. She bent down and picked up her friend's hat.

"Here Els," she panted, her face pink with exertion. "You would not want to lose this."

"No, I would not, thank you," Elsie said cheerfully. "But I would rather lose my hat than my sister." She swung the little girl around in a circle. Becky screamed with delight.

"More, Sissy! More!"

Elsie put her down and quickly pinned her hat back on. "How about Pen and I swing you between us?" She took Becky's right hand and Pen took her left. They kept walking, every few steps swinging Becky between them.

"Oh, you are heavy, Miss Rebecca!" Pen said. "Or I'm warm out here."

"Or both," Elsie gasped. She had been glad when the spring warmth came back, but the humidity here was at times almost suffocating. "Let's sit down for a moment, here in the shade." They let go of Becky and sat under a maple tree in full bloom. Becky immediately grabbed handfuls of dirt.

"Stop, Bee!" Pen said. She reached for the little girl. "You'll get dirt all over you!" Elsie held out her arm to stop her friend.

"Don't bother," she laughed. "It would be easier to let her get dirty now. You would only get dirt all over you, as well as her, if you tried to stop her now. Mam and I will give her a good scrubbing later." They watched her as she got up from the pile of dirt and picked dandelions along the street.

"Becky, love," Elsie called. "Stay along this side, in the grass." Her sister gave a wide, toothy grin.

Pen fanned herself with her hat. "It feels so nice in the shade." She lay down on the grass, her white-gold hair falling out of its bun. "I could fall asleep here. Thank goodness for Sunday afternoons."

"Yes," Elsie agreed, flopping down on the ground. It was rather unladylike, she thought wryly. But then again, she was not a lady. "I have to say, I was surprised that you visited us today. I thought you'd be working on your dress."

Pen sighed and rolled onto her side, propping herself on her elbow. "I worked on it every night for the last week. It's coming along fine. I needed to get out of the house."

"Is your mother relenting at all?" Elsie asked. "Surely now she must be. You're officially engaged!"

"Well, she's gone from berating me morning, noon and night to saying nothing, so it's better than it was." Pen bit her lip. Becky had gone back to the pile of dirt, and was about to put a handful into her mouth before Elsie stopped her.

"No, no!" she said. "You can play in it, but please don't eat it." Becky clapped her hands, the dirt swirling in the sudden breeze.

"Play with me, sissy!" She tugged on Elsie's sleeve. The two drew pictures in the dirt patch, Becky stamping over them when they were finished. Then she yawned, rubbing her eyes.

"Someone else is sleepy as well," Pen said. The sisters went and sat next to her again. Becky laid down, her head in Elsie's lap. She kicked her legs a couple of times before Pen caught them and put them in her own lap. Elsie brushed her sister's brown hair back from her face. "You've got Mam's hair. Thick." Becky's eyes fluttered. Elsie hummed for a moment. She looked up when she heard a sniff. Pen smiled, shaking her head as a tear wobbled in one eye.

"She's so innocent. She may be different, but it's easy to love her." She choked, then turned away. "I'm going to miss you both so much!"

"Don't cry," Elsie said, feeling a lump growing in her throat. "We'll come and see you on the farm. I think Becky would like that." She patted her friend on the back. "Mr. Mason wouldn't mind that, would he?"

Pen shook her head no. She covered her face and sobbed, her chest heaving.

"What's wrong?" Elsie asked, growing alarmed. She glanced down at Becky. Her sister was asleep, her mouth open, snoring lightly. Pen wiped her face with her sleeve. Her eyes and face were red, her skin blotchy.

"Nothing," Pen mumbled.

"Nothing, my eye," said Elsie, holding her by the wrist. "Penelope Avilov, something is bothering you. Something _has_ been bothering you." She thought of Beryl's birthday. "Can't you tell me?"

"No," Pen whispered, tears falling down her face again. "I can't tell you. I can't tell Billy, either."

"You have to tell someone." Elsie was firm. "It's like you've had some great weight on you for the last few weeks." Her voice softened. "Please tell me. It cannot be worse than your mother disapproving of your fiancé!"

Pen looked down, her shoulders shaking. Elsie waited. There was a group of children playing further down the block. Their voices carried on the wind.

"Els, it's Sandy."

Elsie blinked. "Sandy? Is he all right?"

Pen took a shuddering breath, a shaky laugh escaping. "That is a good question. In some ways, he's happier now than he's ever been. He's in love." She stared off into the distance.

Elsie raised her eyebrows. "Oh? What's wrong then?"

Pen opened her mouth, then shut it. She tried and failed again. Finally, she managed to look at Elsie, her chin quivering.

"Elsie, he's in love with a man."

Elsie felt her heart beating, heard a roaring in her ears. _Impossible._ She didn't want to believe Pen, but her friend would never lie to her.

Especially about this.

She tried to think of something to say, mindful of her trembling hands. She stroked Becky's hair gently. She wondered if her sister were older, if she could grow to be a woman both in mind, as well as in body. What she would do if Becky loved a woman.

Tears pricked her eyes. Sandy was kind with everyone he met. There was hardly a person in the neighborhood who didn't call him a friend. Surely that counted for something. She shuddered, thinking of the reality. It counted for nothing, and Pen knew it. If anyone knew…

Finally, she thought of something to say while trying to collect her scattered thoughts.

"Who is it? The man? Do you know?" She reached for Pen's hand instinctively. Her friend's fingers were ice cold.

"Yes, I know," Pen swallowed. "Do you remember Mr. Carter, Jamie Carter? From the theater? He plays the violin."

"I remember him," Elsie said, thinking of the friendly blond man from the previous year. "Does he know how Sandy feels?" Pen could not know the answer to that, why did she ask? To her surprise, Pen laughed.

"Oh yes, he knows. I saw them behind the theater last month," she whispered. "They were kissing."

Elsie was devoutly glad she was already sitting down. _Sandy and Mr. Carter. Kissing._ She blinked furiously, forced herself to speak.

"Did anyone else see them? Or just you?"

"Just me. Thank God." Pen was calmer, though still very pale. "But I think Vasili might know, or at least he suspects. He's been awful to Sandy for the last few weeks, arguing with him over every little thing. Finding fault with him, no matter how small. They've never gotten along very well. They're too different," she said, twisting her hair back into a bun. "Mama explained it away as Vasili just needing to get married and to have his own house. She excuses everything for him."

"Do your parents know? Or Viktor?"

"I don't know for sure," Pen bit her lip. "I think Papa knows. Maybe. This is not something we talk about at home."

"Of course not," Elsie said in a low voice. She looked over her shoulder to make sure they really were alone. "Pen, I'm so sorry," she said, patting her hand. "What a burden you carried."

Pen wrenched her hand away, suddenly angry. "A burden _I_ carried? What about my brother?" she cried, exasperated, her tears beginning again. "What sort of burden has he been carrying? I know what people would say if they knew," she wiped her face, her fingers wet. "They'd call him a sodomite, immoral. They'd say he belongs in prison, if not killed outright. They wouldn't see him as a human being at all." She broke down in sobs completely, her face hidden in her hands.

"He'll never be able to live a free life," she whispered. "He'll never be able to just... _be_. I asked him-I don't know why I asked, but I did-I asked him if he could love a woman. Like that. He said he's tried, but…no."

Elsie closed her eyes. Her heart broke for Sandy, and his sister. She felt tears sliding down her own face. She thought she recognized what Pen was going through – shock, grief for a life Sandy would never have, and fear for what his life would hold. All intertwined with these, Elsie sensed, was the fact that Pen loved him still. No matter what the rest of the world thought. _Not unlike what you feel for Becky_ _._ _You'll always love her, no matter what._

Finally, Pen calmed down. She dabbed at her face with her handkerchief. "Oh," she cried, seeing Elsie's face. "I never wanted to make you upset. I should not have said anything."

"Pen," Elsie struggled to speak, "You needed to speak to someone. I am not upset-" her voice cracked. "I just feel sorry for Sandy, for Mr. Carter, for you." She bit her lip. "I know what the good Reverend would say," her voice dry. "He'd breathe a lot of fire and brimstone, and talk about Sodom and Gomorrah. But I cannot believe that your brother would choose this life," she whispered. _Unless he is insane, which anyone can see that he is not._ A new thought occurred to her. "And if he did not choose it, then it was given to him. For what reason, I cannot say. I don't know. One thing I do know," she said, holding Pen's hand, "is that neither he nor you will lose my friendship. Not now, not ever."

They embraced, Pen clinging to Elsie as if she were drowning in the Mississippi. In her heart, Elsie tucked the truth away. There would never come a time when they could speak openly about it. But she would keep Sandy's secret, because she loved her friends.

She only hoped no one else would find out.

00000000000000000000000000

A light breeze floated through the window, cooling the kitchen. Elsie sighed gratefully, drying the last dish. She put it in the cabinet and walked out to the back porch, sitting down on the steps. The light faded, the colors losing their vibrancy as the sun went down. The only sounds were Da's quiet voice reciting poetry to Becky and the rocking of his and Mam's chairs against the wooden boards. Elsie leaned against the rail on the porch, feeling drowsy.

"I think this wee one has heard enough," Da said after a while, amused. Elsie turned. She smiled at her sister, who was flung across her father's chest, sound asleep.

"You wore her out earlier today," Mam laughed, picking up Becky. Da kissed his youngest child fondly. Mam carried her into the house.

"Perhaps she wore _you_ out, lass." He winked in her direction, his face nearly obscured by the growing darkness. She laughed.

"Perhaps she did." Elsie looked out at the garden. The outline of their neighbor's house was stark against the inky blue sky. Stars appeared above them.

"Elspeth, I am very proud of you."

"Hmmm?" she asked, mesmerized by the heavens.

"I am glad you had the courage to tell Mr. Patmore the truth. Not many women would."

Elsie clasped her hands on her lap. "You're not angry? He is a good man." She bit her lip, worried.

Her father's voice was gentle. "Yes, he is a good man. And not the man for you." He sighed. "I trust you. I think if there is a man out there for you, you will know it."

 _Will I?_ "As long as he is an Edwin, to please you, right?" Elsie joked.

"Of course, _mo nighean_ ," he chuckled. He rocked back and forth in the chair, making the porch vibrate. Elsie thought for a moment, wondering if she should tell him Mr. Carson was back in St. Louis. _What would that do? You haven't been to see him._

She couldn't help but wonder how he was, if he was happy. If he had ever formally walked out with Miss Neal. If they were engaged. Or married.

She sat so long her back began to ache. Behind her, Mam lit a lamp in the kitchen, casting an orange glow outside.

"Elsie?" she called through the window. "Wake your Da. It's late."

She stood up, stretching. She smiled as she approached the rocking chair. His head was back, a small smile visible on his face, the lines showing where he laughed. She shook his shoulder, rocking the chair again.

"Da? Wake up. It's time for bed." He didn't move. She touched him again, the breeze sending a chill through her blouse.

"Da?" she whispered, bending over. There was no sound, no movement of his chest. No breathing. Her heart froze as she touched his face.

"Da, don't go, _dadaidh-_ "

She slumped over his still form, pleading, weeping, while knowing it was too late. He had gone to a place where she could not follow.

 **I'm so sorry, please don't hate me.**


End file.
